


Lycanthropy

by Lymphadei



Series: Interpersonal Affairs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Eventual Romance, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Violence, dark!Sherlock, not omegaverse however there are pack dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock peered at John from beneath dark lashes, sharp eyes knowing, lips tilted at the corner. "You think I don't know your secrets." Leaning close, the man placed his lips to John's ear, soft lips brushing at the cartilage there. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."</p><p>
  <b>ON HOLD INDEFINITELY</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposure

**Author's Note:**

> Gorgeous fanart by the lovely [Corscica](http://corscica.tumblr.com/) whose art is stunningly beautiful and has amazed and surprised me with this work, and gave me the honour of using it as my cover photo! Thank you so much!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is running from a vicious gang of hunters, but encounters something more terrifying along the way.

John crashed through the bramble violently, paws pounding against the dirt as it pulled up beneath his feet. Every stride was an exercise in endurance and his breath pulled sharply from his lungs with each long stride he took. The hunters were on his tail, guns loaded with bullets that, once broken through skin, expelled a liquid silver that spread like fire almost immediately. The hunters had been chasing him for hours at this rate, and each step felt like an extra kilometer, but John knew he couldn't stop. His body hummed with adrenaline and fear, knowing that one misstep could cost his life.

John regretted stopping for water at the stream, but he had been on the verge of collapsing without the liquid to keep him on his feet. It was only a moment, but the hunters had been on his heels all night, and it only brought them closer to his locale. John was completely outnumbered, and the hunters had split up to gain more ground, reminiscent of the way John would have hunted prey with his pack, and he could feel himself slowing down and growing weaker.

Darting sharply to the left, John's sharp eyes could see a break in the trees. There; a house in the distance, lights, maybe a safe haven for him. John had never gone this deep into the woods before; his pack had dwelt on the outskirt of the forest, closer to the main road, which he thoroughly regretted now. Trying to cohabitate with humans had gotten his mates slaughtered. John lifted his nose to the air and scented, looking for danger he knew lurked around every corner. He could smell another one of his kind. Not good, he thought to himself, that was not good at all. If he was encroaching on someone's territory, they were likely to rip his throat out before the hunters ever got to him; John just didn't know which death would be a better mercy.

The forest hummed with invisible life broken only with the sound of leaves scattered up into the air in his wake. John took a quick leap over a thin stream of water and raced further into the woods and tried not to feel quite so hopeful as he noticed the lights looming closer and closer with every stride he made. He didn't know who occupied the cabin, only that it looked safe and would provide shelter for him and a place to hide. Those thoughts were soon forgotten as a noise too close to be the hunters grabbed his attention. John faltered in his steps, wondering if one of the hunters were waiting in the tangle of trees to ambush him. With sharpened vision, he peered into the darkness to discern what might have made the noise. Whatever it was, It came quickly from a tangle of thorn bushes, barreling into his side harder than anything he had ever had the fortune of not feeling. The force of the tackle caused John to slam harshly into a great oak tree, becoming stunned as his head slammed back against the bark, eyes squinting open to see his new problem charging towards him brazenly. He had just enough time to roll over onto his stomach before the next attack, limping backwards as he assessed his opponent.

Perhaps death by hunters would be a better mercy, once John saw what he was up against.

A wolf, black as night, stalked closer, hackles raised in defiance as well as a true anger John could feel almost as potently as the fear radiating off of himself. The wolf was long of length and stood almost four feet, a mammoth of a specimen, all lean muscle and stealth. If the hunters found him, he would be quite the match for them, and maybe John could get away, but before he could even finish that cowardly thought, John could feel his stomach twist in revulsion. John Watson had never been one to back down from a challenge and he wouldn't start now. He knew he would stay and fight both hunter and werewolf if he had to.

The dark wolf let loose a terrifying snarl that would unsteady any hardened man, lips pulling back over gleaming white teeth that could easily break through bone and gristle, and set his body into a crouch, finding threat in John's defensive posture. However, before he could proceed to attack, a snapping twig and rustle of leaves pulled his attention to the darkness John had been running from. The black wolf threw his head back and howled just as the hunters had finally burst through the foliage, guns at the ready. John knew the wolf had called for backup, and he realized that there was a battle about to take place in this clearing.

Three men and a woman emerged from the line of trees, an old family of hunters that had been tracking John and his kin for months, with none of them the wiser. Stupid, stupid! How could they have missed this?

The black wolf threw himself forward, artfully dodging their bullets, and John hesitated only a moment before he scrambled up and charged towards the enemies. The other wolf was a dirty fighter, a trickster, darting around and causing confusion one moment and a hair's length away from breaking every bone of their legs with sharp canines. He was intelligent and quick, where the hunters rarely had experience fighting one such as he, but they were also fast on their feet, making it hard for the wolf to get a grip, only ripping off pieces of fabric as they dodged.

John tackled one of the men, a red-haired, solid brute wielding a shot gun no doubt loaded with silver bullets. He growled, launching his body from the ground paws first and slammed into the man's chest, aiming to disarm him first and foremost. For a moment he saw fear swimming in hardened blue eyes before they resolved into anger and the hunter began to fight back. John liked to think of himself as a sturdy wolf; wide and strong from years of protecting himself and his former pack, a little on the short side, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in strength and bravery. John was sure he could take this Goliath.

John heard a sickening snap come from the other side of the clearing, and turned to see the other wolf had the human pinned to the ground with his weight, teeth locked around the man's neck. Blood dripped from his dark muzzle as he pulled, ripping through soft flesh and cartilage, creating a gruesome display, his intelligent eyes glowing in obvious glee. John allowed himself a moment of fear, knowing that had the hunters not showed, that would have been him. This was not just a werewolf; this was a predator, a killer.

The hunter beneath John took advantage of his momentary distraction and grabbed him by the scruff at his throat, using it as leverage to propel his body off and away, slamming quick feet into John's already bruised ribs. A high pitched whine was snatched brutally from his throat as he landed heavily into the dirt, vaguely noticing as more wolves arrived, blocking out the noise of the hunters with ferocious, deep-throat growls. It was a bloody battlefield and John surveyed with hooded eyes as the wolves tore down the last of the hunters, including the man John had pursued, their pained screams ricocheting loudly off the trees. As the screams abated so did the sounds of the forest, recognizing the predators that now lurked within close range.

John felt his breath come in quick, his body shifting and snapping back to its human form, naked and vulnerable, and the last of his energy depleted. He could feel he had been severely wounded by the attack from the black wolf and the hunter. If these feral werewolves wanted to kill him, it would be no trouble for them at all; John was weak and probably dying. The hunters who had been chasing him for hours had just been taken down quickly and viciously by a group of wolves with numbers and the intent to eradicate. John knew he was next and he would rather not be conscious for this bit. The darkness was already closing around the edges of his vision, so John closed his eyes and allowed it to swallow him.

......

John had been dreaming fitfully of a wolf so dark he blended flawlessly with the night. The eyes stood out in the darkness, glowing a color he had never before seen, intelligent beyond anything John had ever witnessed, frightfully observant and menacing. John dreamed sharp teeth plunging through skin, painted in red.

He slept terribly, to say the least, until his rude awakening.

John jolted awake sharply, shivering with the onslaught of ice cold water being heaped upon his person in the most violent way possible. His chest heaved as he breathed in and out, in and out. God, John could breath. He was alive! How could he be alive? John opened his eyes in bemusement, first his left, and then the right, not too sure if he was still dreaming or not.

The room was cold and dark, and stank of mold and stale water. Pulling up a hand to wipe the water from his eyes, John wasn't surprised to find them handcuffed to a rusty, though sturdy pipe rooted from floor to ceiling.

What the hell?

Sitting up slowly, John winced, feeling the wounds in his abdomen pull as he put pressure on them. Everything ached and his head was splitting into two as far as he could tell. Pushing through the fog of pain, John squinted up into the face of a man silhouetted by a dim light that hung from the ceiling. It was a dark haired man, tall and imposing as he observed John severely, empty bucket hanging from the man's fingers carelessly.

John blinked rapidly, feeling his pulse race double time, which no doubt the other man could hear... and the fear; John was sure the stranger could smell that, too.

“Who... who are you?” John's voice was steady, at least that he could be thankful for, and gravelly from lack of use, but his left hand trembled, a tell-tale sign of his distress.

The man tossed the bucket aside, the loud clank as it hit the wall causing John to wince as the noise echoed loudly throughout the room. The dark haired figure knelt down, getting eye level with John, head tilted in curiosity. A pale set of gawkers surveyed John cautiously, and the steel he could see there left him unsettled under this man's scrutiny. Those peculiar eyes... He had seen them before.

“I should have left you to die,” the man sneered viciously, “bringing those hunters into my territory. My pack and I were cleverly hidden from any human presence, and now you've led them here, so shut up, and ask nothing.”

John swallowed, taken aback by the malice and hostility in the man's voice. He hadn't thought about what his plan of action would be if he lived, but at this moment, John was more worried about staying alive now that he had been captured.

The man's eyes scanned over the captive's face as if reading every thought passing through his mind, so John masked his expressions and peered at the stranger under heavy brows. Piercing verdigris eyes flickered from John's face and down his bruised body, staying longer at some places than others as if he were collecting information and filing it away.

“You passed out from exhaustion, so obviously the hunters had been chasing you several hours before you got to my territory. You were alone; your pack was massacred by hunters or else you would have no reason to run from them. Most wolves stay and fight, you were fleeing, which meant you had no backup coming. The hunter you were fighting had a collection of used bullets in a pouch, most likely trophy's from his recent kills. By the number of bullets, he killed six of your pack mates and was planning on gloating once he caught you, before he rid you of your pathetic life, of course.” The stranger tilted his head the other way once the stream of word had come to a stand still, as if changing perspectives and leaned closer. His words were spoken without emotion as if he were just listing off names and numbers, rather than the fact that John's entire pack had been slaughtered and he was next.

John's breath hitched in his throat, leaning back to place room between himself and his captor, feeling as defenseless as a newborn under this stranger's imposing gaze, feeling flayed as the other man laid out every incident leading up to now without John having said a word.

“What-?”

With the grace and inhuman speed of a practiced predator, his captor had a hand wrapped around the smaller man's throat, cutting off the air through his trachea, and effectively silencing him. “I said don't...talk.” between words, the hand continued to constrict John's throat in a hold far stronger than the man looked to be. “More hunters will come looking for you, and you've led them straight to me.” The man watched him with a warning , and John recognized it, nodding as best as he could while his throat was being held hostage. The stranger slowly released him, standing and taking a step back as he nonchalantly brushed non-existent lint off of his immaculate suit. He gazed down imperiously at the chained man, running a hand through the curls on his forehead. “Against my better judgment, I will allow you a day to recover, and after, you must leave; take yourself and your trouble elsewhere that won't cause my pack to suffer the same fate as yours.”

The man turned abruptly, taking long strides to the door before John finally found his voice and called out: “Why are you helping me?” John swallowed nervously, feeling his stomach clench up in anticipation as the man stopped, one hand on the doorknob and the other resting relaxed by his side.

His captor turned only his head as he answered, not quite looking at him, but for some reason, John felt like he had this mystery person's attention.

“Because despite whatever inane, and quite frankly, irrelevant thoughts you may have of me, I am not a monster.”

And then he was gone, and once again it was just John and the dim light hanging from the ceiling, casting everything into shadows.


	2. Interloper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself on the bad side of the pack alpha, and possibly, a new ally to help him through this strange situation.

John was nearly driven insane by the itch tingling just beneath his skin. He craved the change, but the captive werewolf wouldn't dare transform while under the reluctant care of the unusual man he had encountered upon waking.

Faster than any human could have ever hoped, John's body had begun to heal, and the deep blue, mottled bruises that had been there before were non-existent. The recovery had sapped most of his energy throughout the night, and now he could guess it was hours past midnight and the moon was at it's highest. 

John could feel the pull like a siren call, willing him to shed his human skin and run, run, run The wolf recognized danger and prowled restlessly, ready to take over once again at a moments notice. John growled, slapping a hand against the cement floor, the chain wrapped around his wrist clinking loudly with the movement. If his captor was going to keep him locked up down here, he could at least bring John food.

The werewolf could only guess it had been several hours since his untimely capture, and the dark haired man hadn't returned since John's initial awakening. His muscles were tense from the cold, shivers wracking his naked boy, remembering the chill of ice cold water hitting his bare skin.

John pulled his legs up to his body and wrapped his arms around them, head leaning forward to rest tiredly against his knees. God, he was hungry and dearly wished for some clothes to hide his vulnerability.

In the quiet of the dank basement, John thought of the hunters and their screams as they were ripped apart by a vicious pack. He thought of the screams of his own kin as they were murdered and how he just barely escaped unscathed. There was nothing to go back to now; there would be nowhere else to go once he was released, no one to stand with him against the hunters.

In all of his life, John had moments in which he had lived singularly, but he had never truly been alone. Whenever he needed assistance, his pack was there to defend him, as he was for them. Bill, Mike, Harry... They were all dead now. His pack mates had all faced a gruesome and undeserved death at the hands of men who wanted nothing more than to exterminate every last one of his kind out of fear and anger.

The itch was still there under John's skin, like fingertips skimming softly over every surface of his body, but the pain in his chest overrode it all. He didn't cry; he just felt... numb.

Alone.

Alone was what he had now.

 

........

 

The heavy steel door being unbolted and pulled open was what dragged John from a light doze. His body ached in discomfort from the taut position he'd slept in. The blond squinted against the torchlight being shown directly into his eyes, one hand slowly coming up, palm facing outwards in a weak defense against the assault on his vision.

It was a young black woman with cream coloured skin and dark, curly hair accompanied by an older male, most likely in his mid-thirties with salt and pepper hair cut close to the scalp. Wide brown eyes stared down at him in apparent interest, a bowl held in one hand and a set of brass knuckles clutched in the other.

So he was a fighter, ready to defend himself should the need arise, but John was neither up for the challenge nor did he see the point as he was outnumbered terribly. Also, the man had food.

The woman held a cup in one hand, that John prayed was mercifully full of water, and a torch in the other. She watched the captive with suspicion, chin slightly tilted upwards as the other man stepped forward to place the food at John's feet before turning and retrieving the cup from his companion, which was also placed next to the bowl.

John waited until the man had backed away a few feet before grabbing for the bowl. He was starving. The past few days he had been running from the hunters and the hunger hadn't set in yet. It was just a simple sausage and beans, but John found himself devouring it without delay. God, he felt like he could cry, the feeling of relief was so overwhelming. Shoving another handful into his mouth, John made to snatch the cup up with his unoccupied right hand, and swallowed as much water as he could manage.

The woman made a noise in the back of her throat, backing away as she watched John stuff a handful of beans past his cracked lips. "That's disgusting."

The other man watched quietly, a gleaming, knowing look in his eyes. John was almost sure that at some point, this man must have been in his position before. "Easy does it," his tone was placating, but his voice had a gruff quality that made every word he spoke sound akin to a low growl. "More where that came from if you behave."

The bowl was empty and the cup had been drained upon contact. John fell back against the pipe, ribs expanding and retracting quickly as he allowed himself to breathe again. More, he needed more.

"Please," he begged. He felt empty, and he didn't know if he was hungry for comfort or food. "More, please."

The grey haired man turned to the woman. "Sally, get more food and water for him. If Sherlock asks, it's for you."

Sally rolled her eyes muttering under her breath as she turned on her heel, tossing the torch to the man who caught it with deft hands. "Yeah, like he's going to fall for that shite."

When the woman disappeared from sight, the man knelt slowly, pocketing the brass knuckles and leveraging an arm on the leg that balanced his body in that position. "You got a name, mate?"

John regarded him suspiciously, wondering why the man wanted to know. He would be out of their hair soon, as if he were never there. John kept his lips sealed, at a loss of whether he should trust this man with that information or not.

Before he could answer, the curious stranger interrupted his thoughts. "It's alright if you don't want me to know." The man shrugged, "You just look like you've had a rough time of it, is all."

John blinked rapidly, eyes fluttering closed briefly as memories of his dead kin and ruthless hunters flashed across his mind in a rapid sequence. He opened them, only to see that man staring back at him, those eyes telling a story not too much unlike his own.

"John," he said cautiously. "John Watson." Lestrade flashed him a tight smile, standing as the sound of footsteps heading towards the door reached their ears.

"Well, John Watson, you had Sherlock riled up quite a bit."

"Really Lestrade, you're left alone for a moment and already making friends with the prisoner." A deep baritone interrupted their stilted dialogue, scathingly mocking.

John already knew who it was before he turned to look.

Lestrade turned to meet the other man who strode in with a replacement bowl and refilled cup. Rolling his eyes, John caught the words the man hissed under his breath. "Damn it, Sally!"

Lestrade took a step back as the dark haired man from the night before placed the cup and bowl at his feet again, and John wasted no time, reaching for both. He knew he was making a spectacle of himself, but this is the most John had eaten in days, and anything was a godsend at this point. The food suffered much the same fate as the bowl of meat and beans before.

The man didn't look away politely like the others, rather he just stared with those oddly coloured eyes, face set in a deep frown as if he were trying to puzzle something out.

"Why, exactly, are we keeping him chained down here like a prisoner, Sherlock?"

The man - Sherlock - turned and shot the him a look that quite clearly displayed how stupid of a question he considered that to be. Lestrade, whose hands had previously been folded over his chest, lifted them outwards in surrender, a placating gesture. "Isn't he supposed to be recuperating? I mean, down here it's a bit-" Lestrade swiveled a finger in the air, motioning to the room in general and its current state.

"It's fine," Sherlock bit out in deep annoyance, not backing away from the stare down he and Lestrade were currently engaged in. "He won't be here for much longer."

Lestrade folded his arms, his face forming into a somewhat fatherly expression of stern disapproval. "Sherlock, you know as well as I do that he has nowhere else to go."

"Not my problem." Sherlock's tone was firm and he got his point across quite efficiently, John thought. Lestrade didn't challenge him, but his lips tightened in obvious frustration.

John cleared his throat, ending the wordless feud between the two and held up his index finger. "Still here," he pointed out. "Just to remind you, I didn't actually ask for your help so if you'd kindly release me, I'll be on my way. Thanks."

Greg snickered behind his hand at the narrow eyed glare currently drilling a hole in John's head. Sherlock procured a key out of his pocket and without preamble, stepped forward and into John's space without so much as a forewarning.

"With pleasure," Sherlock growled, yanking the chain closer, thus roughly jostling John's arm and wrist in a vindictive, childish manner.

"Ow!" John yanked the chain back, reveling in the fact that he had nearly unbalanced Sherlock. Turning to Lestrade who watched with barely concealed amusement, he jerked his head sideways indicating the dark haired man currently fighting with his cuffs. "Is he always such an arsehole?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Lestrade replied drily.

Sherlock growled, an inhuman noise that John found himself stilling at, lips snapping shut on a witty remark. "Shut up and stay still."

Sherlock made quick work of the cuffs once John began to cooperate, albeit a bit reluctantly, and shoved them into one of the many pockets of a great wool coat that would look quite ridiculous on anyone else.

"There," the brunette waved a dismissive hand in John's general direction. "You're free. Get out."

Lestrade took this moment to voice a protest, appearing baffled by his friend's careless demeanor. "Now wait just a minute, Sherlock! You can't just toss him out _now_!"

John stood slowly on shaky legs, bones creaking in protest against the change in position. One small step found him stumbling sideways against the rusty pipe he'd been chained to all night. John hadn't felt this week since he was a pup. His body had healed, but a night on cold, damp cement hadn't done a thing to replenish his energy.

Lestrade hurried over to lend him an arm, and gratefully, John leaned a bit of his weight on the grey haired man. "Christ, Sherlock, the man can barely hold himself up."

John didn't know why this Lestrade fellow was fighting so hard to convince Sherlock to allow him to stay, but John had a feeling it had a bit to do with the look he'd seen in Lestrade's eyes the first they met. Somewhere, at some time, someone must have done the same for him. John found that he wanted to hear this man's story before it was time for him to depart.

Sherlock rolled his eyes so dramatically, John feared they would roll out of his head, scowling at the older man. "Oh, Lestrade, when are you going to learn that your bleeding heart doesn't extend to everyone within a five foot radius or otherwise. Don't force your moral crisis onto me. I assure you, it won't work."

The tall brunette turned those eyes onto him, and once again, the feeling of being stripped down and cut open made him feel just as uneasy as the first time. John wrapped his arms around his naked body, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable and judged. The taller male followed the movement, eyes predatory in their intensity, and John didn't know if the small spark of excitement he caught was just his imagination.

Sherlock sighed loudly, verdigris eyes narrowing as his lips curled into a snarl that distorted what John would otherwise think were rather unconventionally attractive features. "What is it with you and your ridiculous supplications? Lestrade, the hero; Lestrade the savior. One day," Sherlock said, eyes gone completely cold, "I will no longer listen to them."

Something in the way he spoke those last words made John's spine straighten in alarm. Who was this man and what happened to make him so frigid? Lestrade must have felt it too, because he swallowed before continuing on, not quite masking his wariness.

"You know what happened," Lestrade paused, breathing deeply, slowly, in and then out, "and you know what I came from. For me, do this for me, Sherlock."

During this, John could see Sherlock soften just the slightest. His body language was still tense, but frosty eyes lost some of their hard edge. John wished he knew what happened, to make a man like Sherlock give in to Lestrade's appeal. Whatever Lestrade had come from, it had to have been worse than anything John had been through before the hunters came.

Lestrade didn't back down from Sherlock's mercurial glare and the moment stretched interminably between the two, before Sherlock scoffed angrily.

"Do what you want, Lestrade. He will be your problem for the duration of his time here," the dark haired man snapped. He paused and turned to John, eyes hardening into threatening crystals. "As for you," he stalked forward, backing John into the water stained wall, "Don't think that I will not be watching your every move. You saw what I did to the hunters, and you know what I'm capable of doing to protect my pack."

So, he was the black wolf that attacked John that night. That didn't make John feel any better about this. "If you try anything, I won't be held accountable for your sudden 'unfortunate' demise."

John felt his shoulders pull up in defiance, ready to rip this tosser's throat out. "Are you threatening me," he growled between clenched teeth.

John didn't think it was possible for Sherlock to get any closer, but the man leaned directly into his face, pinning eyes on him alight with a vicious gleam. "Oh no, threats are tedious. I am promising you."

They were nose-to-nose now, chest puffed out with pride and bravado, and John wanted nothing more than to rearrange this buggers face, see that stupidly perfect nose drip red.

"Alright you two," Lestrade growled, stepping in between the men who were trembling with repressed violence. "Put your claws away, boys, there will be no killing," he stated, shooting Sherlock a pointed look, "and no fighting."

John's fists clenched painfully, nails biting into the skin of his palms as he fought the instinct to back down. Sherlock was the Alpha of this pack and whether John liked it or not, he was in the other wolf's territory.

Reluctantly, he backed away, smart enough to know he didn't posses the stamina nor the strength to squabble a fighter like Sherlock. John thought back to the night before, to the black wolf and the ferociousness in which he tore into his enemies. No, John thought, he wasn't quite ready for that.

Sherlock sensed his surrender and relaxed minutely, though sharp eyes still bore into John's warningly.

Finally, the man looked away and John felt himself slump in visible relief, and sag back against the wall feeling drained from the exchange.

Lestrade came to his side again to offer himself as a leaning post, while Sherlock observed the exchange without comment, before he turned and headed to the stairs. Once the man made it to the door, he turned to address Lestrade. "Once you're done playing nurse, come and find me. We have business to discuss."

Finally, the Alpha had left the room and Lestrade began to help him to the stairs, shaking his grey head as they went. "So, that was our pack leader, if you haven't figured that out for yourself already. He can be a bit of a wanker."

"I see," John grumbled as they began to tackle the stairs now. "Is he always that pleasant?"

Lestrade sighed, and John heard a heaviness to it that wasn't there before. "He found you at a bad time, or rather, you found us. We've been having a time of it with the hunters, and Sherlock doesn't trust outsiders." It made sense to John, in a way, but if Sherlock was so distrustful, why hadn't he just left him in the clearing?

"The way our kind are being hunted now, I don't reckon why we couldn't just join up and go after those bastards, but it's been every pack for themselves."

John shrugged. He used to think the same way, but just like humans, werewolves killed their own too, for land, power, and mates, even. John had encountered a few werewolves who killed just because they could. Lestrade stopped them at the top step, looking warily at the door before regarding John.

"There's going to be a lot of people up there who aren't going to want you here, a lot of riled up wolves itching for a fight. We all saw the hunters the night Sherlock came by you in the woods," Lestrade paused and shook his head, looking into John's eyes. "They're all a bit wary now, they think you've led them here and so does the pack leader. Whenever Sherlock is worried, then we all are, so try not to provoke them."

John's brow furrowed in bemusement. "You sure are going through a lot of trouble for me. Why?" John was suspicious of the man's motives. Though Lestrade was kind and very straight forward, the two of them had just met, and John didn't think that merited Lestrade jumping through hoops for him.

Lestrade smiled easily and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You know, rarely has anyone challenged Sherlock the way you did and lived to tell the tale. I like you, mate, and besides the fact, I wouldn't abandon one of my own." Lestrade's smile melted away. "We've turned away many wolves seeking shelter over these past few years, we don't know who to trust, but I've got a feeling about you. And Sherlock, as abrasive as he is, I think he likes you, too."

John laughed bitterly, ignoring the turn in his stomach at Lestrade's revelation. "If that's him liking someone, I would certainly not want to be hated by him."

John had meant it as a joke, but the grey-haired man grew serious all too quickly, and the younger wolf felt his smile fall away. "No, you really don't."

John tried not to shiver from his ominous response. It felt more like a warning to the young man and he'd rather heed it than to play with fire. If cooperating is what Sherlock wanted, he would get it. John didn't want a confrontation. "Right."

"Good," Lestrade replied, tone lightening now that John had acknowledged his subtle warning. "Let's get you upstairs. You look like you haven't had a proper wash in days."

John followed behind the jovial man, wondering if he would be better off turning tail and fleeing back into the woods. Everything about Sherlock made him cautious, but there was also a danger to the man that attracted John like a moth to a flame and that was what scared him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments and the kudos. You guys are the best! Finally we meet Lestrade, and things between our boys are beginning to heat up. Will Sherlock allow John to stay, and how will the pack feel about their temporary charge? Until next time!


	3. Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments! You are all so wonderful. Don't be put off if I haven't responded. I've been so busy lately, but please know that I appreciate each and every one of you that have take time out of your day to comment on my story! Anyway, on to the next chapter. It's not a very long one, but be patient. I am laying the groundwork.

John could feel his lungs growing lighter with every step closer to the basement exit. He couldn't help the sigh of relief when Lestrade opened the heavy steel door to an empty corridor that ended at a set of stairs at the end, which John assumed would lead them above ground. John allowed the door to slam shut behind them, satisfied to be breathing air that didn't smell of mildew and, well... wet dog, if he was being honest with himself. 

John lifted his nose to the air and sniffed delicately, searching for possible danger up ahead,where a bulb swung ominously over the dim staircase, but all he could smell was the woodsy scent of his companion and his own unwashed person. If there was one thing he would kill for right now, it was a hot bath to ease his aching muscles, and clothes to cover his bare body.

He'd been without either for several days now, and John didn't want to be presented to the other wolves like vulnerable prey. It was bad enough being in unfamiliar territory, and John would rather be prepared for the worst before being introduced to this seemingly hostile group. 

Lestrade allowed the younger man to walk in pensive silence for the duration of their short journey, for which John was infinitely grateful, and a short while later, the pair of them had finished struggling and made it to a nondescript door at the top of the stairs. He turned to the grey-haired man imploringly, and Lestrade paused with a hand on the door, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. 

"Is there any chance of me being able to shower and dress before I meet your kin?" John desperately hoped that Lestrade would allow him these small things. It was the one thing he could bring himself to ask for after Lestrade had already put his neck out for a man he barely even knew. 

Lestrade smiled reassuringly, patting John lightly on the shoulder with a nod. "Of course," he said, "there's a bathroom right up those stairs to the left. I'll loan you some of my clothes. We have a similar build, but they may be a bit long on you."

John shrugged, smiling appreciatively at the older man. He had no room to be choosy. "Whatever you've got will work just fine." 

Lestrade released John in order to open the door, the other man leaning his body against the wall, still feeling sluggish, even more so after the short trip up the stairs. Lestrade pulled an old fashioned key from his back pocket, rusty with age and overuse, and slipped it into the keyhole. 

The door opened to a hallways lit with hanging parraffin lamps leading down the hallway where another door was slightly ajar. John could hear voices trickling through, drifting softly down the corridor to where he and Lestrade stood.

The older man turned to a door on their immediate right that John guessed opened up to the bathroom he had mentioned before. "Here you are, I'll just go fetch some clothes for you. Shaving kit is under the sink; looks like you'll be needing that." 

John waited as Lestrade turned into a door at the end of the hall and listened as he rummaged around muttering to himself under his breath. He took the time to look around while the other man looked for clothes, taking in the garish green wallpaper and the unpolished wood flooring. The hallway had an old Victorian feel to it that John wondered if the rest of the house mirrored. 

There were no pictures up on the walls, or anything that gave the area a personal touch. It wasn't a terribly long hallway, but it stretched enough to allow two doors on the left and three on the right, including the bathroom and the room Lestrade entered into, all of which were spaced evenly apart. 

John shivered, wrapping his arms around his bared body and eyeing the door at the end of the hall nervously. He hoped no one walked through and saw him in the state that he was. Despite what people thought, first impressions do matter, and John didn't want to come off as defenseless to these new wolves. It was important that they saw he wasn't intimidated by them. If the pack was anything like Lestrade described them, John knew he would have to prove himself, no matter that he would only be there a few days. The wolves needed to know that if their den came under siege while he resided there, he would be fit enough to fight alongside them. If not, he was as good as useless.

Lestrade returned with an arm full of clothes and trainers a size too large for him. "There we go," the man said, placing the clothes into John's outstretched hands. "Sorry about the trainers. I wasn't sure of your size, so you'll have to make do with those. When you're done, we'll be right through that door at the end of the hall."

John looked past Lestrade and to the door again, feeling a bit more wary the closer it came time to meet the rest of the wolves. 

Lestrade turned and glanced at the door as well, before giving John a knowing smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just remember what I told you and everything will be fine," the older man relayed calmly, the mirth draining from his face as he watched John fidget. "Honestly, Sherlock was probably the worst of the lot that you'll be meeting."

John laughed bitterly, shaking his head at the man standing opposite him. "Is that supposed to make me feel better," he asked.

"No," Lestrade shrugged. Sherlock was pretty extreme when it came to the hostility he'd shown John. "Just thought you ought to know. Well, I'll leave you to it, then." 

The man backed out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him, a tiny smirk lifting the corner of his lips. No sooner than the door had shut than John was stepping into the shower, turning the handle to it's warmest setting. God, it felt so good to be cleaning his body. He had been sitting for too long in that dank basement covered in mud and sweat, with no clothes to cover his indecency. Lestrade had been a godsend. 

John slumped back against the tiled wall of the shower, head tilted down as he let the spray batter his skin. The water swirled beneath his feet, dark with the dirt from his body and old, dried blood from wounds that had already healed. John sighed heavily, torn between ecstasy and wariness. He didn't know if he was honestly ready to meet this new pack. He had half a mind to convince Lestrade to take him back to the basement, but the promise of a comfortable bed and fresh food warming his belly was what forced John to keep his mouth closed and carry on. 

The wolves would be curious at some point, and if John didn't come to them, they would surely seek him out. He would just have to grin and bear it. 

John took a slow shower, taking the time to scrub every inch of his body thoroughly and wash the grease from his hair. By the time he was done, John felt more relaxed than he had in days, tension going down the drain just as easily as the grime.

He made quick work of dressing and used the new toothbrush Lestrade had handed him atop the pile of clothes. John put the shaving kit to use, cutting away days worth of beard growth on his face. He appraised himself for the first time since he began fleeing from the hunters, feeling something close to human again, well, sort of. The skin around his eyes was baggy with exhaustion, face edged with shadows of anger, sadness, bitterness, and desolation. John didn't really want to be here. He was thankful for Lestrade's kindness, but he had no place here, or any other pack for that matter. John couldn't protect his own kin, so what good would he do for this new lot? 

John hadn't been the leader of the last pack, it wasn't what he was born to do. He prided himself on his ability to take orders and excel at them; he had been Bill's second-in-command, the one he turned to for consult, among other things. They had even been lovers, but friends more than all of that. John found himself missing his leader terribly, missing everyone he had lost that night. He still couldn't bring himself to think about his sister, Harry. She had been a brave wolf, and died the same way. 

John leaned against the basin, chin quivering as he tried to hold himself together, but it hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. He'd never get to see those people again, all John had to look forward to was burying their bodies. Now, they were somewhere he could not reach.

Running a trembling hand over his face, John hoisted himself up, back straightening as he pulled himself together. This was neither the place or the time to allow his emotions to get the most of him. That could wait until John found a solitary place to remember his fallen pack mates.

A knock at the door startled John and he jumped slightly at the surprise before clearing his throat. "Just a moment!" 

"You alright in there, mate, sure you didn't drown or anything?" Lestrade's raspy growl filtered through the door warily. John opened the door, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "Hiding out are we?" 

John shrugged his shoulders stiffly as he regarded the older man. "Bit out my comfort zone..." Now that he had showered and dressed, John could feel his nerves alighting in anticipation of meeting the pack. He couldn't lie and say that he wasn't nervous of their reactions. It had been years since he had to make a good impression on anyone. John could be himself around his former pack mates, and Bill wasn't one to care about appearances where their pack etiquette was concerned. "Ta for the clothes."

Lestrade shot him a look that informed John of his comprehension on the matter, before spinning on his heels and walking towards the door at the end of the hallway. Warm light spilled through the crack, and John could smell the burning of firewood as they drew closer. Lestrade turned and flashed one last reassuring grin before he opened the door.

It was a large sitting room, unnervingly filled with crackling tension and paranoid werewolves. The walls were draped in the same wallpaper from the hall and more parraffin lamps hung from the walls, encasing the room in a dim glow. The flames from the fireplace cast dancing shadows around the room, eerie and unnaturally appearing to take on a life of their own. All the furniture was mismatched and frumpy with time and overuse, providing the room with a lived in feel. Heavy blue drapes blocked out any and all sunlight as well as the potential for prying eyes. Overall, John could say the creep factor was ramped up one hundred percent.

Immediately, the room went quiet, and six set of eyes were settled heavily upon his person. John swallowed and stepped into the room, coming to a parade rest before before the group, hands clasped dutifully behind his back. 

Lestrade stepped beside him and cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the others currently pinning John with stares of varying degrees. One man in particular, a fair haired gentleman, tall and poised on the edge of his seat appeared particularly unimpressed by the newcomer. He was seated adjacent to Sherlock, body angled towards the leader familiarly.

"You all, this is John Watson. He will be staying with us for a few days, as you well know. Please be on your best behaviour, as he will my charge for the duration of his stay." Lestrade spoke authoritatively, but there was no mistaking that Sherlock was in charge, by the way all eyes flickered to the man skeptically as Lestrade concluded his introduction of John. The alpha was not pleased, and John could see the furtive looks they were throwing the man as he slumped in his seat, fingers tapping exaggeratedly against the armrests., clearly bored with the proceedings.

A small, mousy woman with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail waited patiently until Lestrade had finished speaking before she spoke up softly. "How long will he be staying?" She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking from Sherlock, insecurely, and then fleetingly back to John again.

"A few days, I'd reckon," Lestrade grunted, folding his arms over a broad chest. 

A dark haired man with long, angular features and a sharp nose held upwards pompously, sneered in disagreement. "No way, isn't this the bloke that lead those bloody hunters straight to the den?"

Lestrade turned a stern eye onto the outraged man, his once relaxed posture straightening into something more defensive. "Anderson, don't start."

The man jumped up, turning to Sherlock defiantly, pointing a stiff, bony finger at John accusingly. "You're mad if you're going to allow him to stay here. He's got trouble written all over him!"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, annoyed, and looking more and more put out with the discussion as time drew forward. He showed no signs of having paid attention to anything that came from the surly man's mouth until the blond from earlier spoke up.

"Agreed," the blond assented softly. "We've only just settled here, and already they've found us." Sherlock turned sharp, assessing eyes onto the fair haired man, a silent conversation seeming to be taking place between the two. 

Lestrade stepped forward with his hands out, attempting to silence the murmurs throughout the room. "Now, wait just a minute! We put those hunters down, how can you be so sure they have others coming."

Sherlock sat up abruptly at that, before leaning back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other imperiously, hands steepled before his lips. "Let's not mince words for the sake of our 'guest', Lestrade," the leader bit out with a malicious gleam. "You know as well as I that hunters are highly competent trackers.  It's just as well that they would stay in communication with their home base should they perish, thus the reason they are not kept on tighter leashes while pursuing our kind."

Lestrade frowned in dismay, looking up at Sherlock from under lowered brows, but the steady stream of words from the pack alpha continued unhindered. "Following the squabble from the day before, I returned to the clearing and found these, which also may shed some light on your idiotic brains as to how crucial this situation has become." The man held out his hand, unfurling his fingers to reveal three tiny silver balls, not much larger than an orange seed, but John still felt his eyes widen at the sight of it. The room grew quiet, as all waited with bated breath for Sherlock to explain.

John didn't need him to say, though, because he had spotted them in the area surrounding his territory shortly after the massacre, while fleeing. He recalled using them during his time in the military when they went out on missions, but now he felt his stomach turn at the sight of it. 

John intoned at the same time as Sherlock, his voice less steady than the dark haired man's. "Breadcrumbs." 

Sherlock shot John a curious look, eyes running over his face for a fraction of a second before he continued. "So named after the fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel. The children dropped breadcrumbs to retrace their steps when they ventured into the forest, and the hunters have taken that idea and reinvented it, quite cleverly, I might add."

The dark skinned woman, Sally, jumped up angrily, a growl humming deep in her chest. "Now what are we going to do? We're not prepared for an outright battle, we'll all be dead!"

The long faced man turned on John ferociously, stepping forward with ill intent. John forced himself to relax, but his fists clenched tightly behind his back in restraint. Fighting with a member of the pack would do no good where he was concerned, especially when John was only there on Lestrade's behalf. 

Lestrade stepped forward and blocked the irate man's path. "That's enough out of you, Anderson."

The man - Anderson - pushed a finger over Lestrade's shoulder and right into John's face. 

"We don't need your trouble around here, we've got enough of our own!" The room was filled with a multitude of voices all speaking at once, some muttering platitudes to calm Anderson, and a couple of others agreeing vehemently with the man's protest. Through it all, Sherlock sat quietly in his seat, fingers on his temples as if he were developing a migraine. John could practically hear Sherlock's teeth grinding against one another in frustration. "It's just as Victor said; we were just settling in and here this barmy arsehole comes and ruins it for the lot of us!"

John could feel the growl building slowly in his throat, as if the wolf were ready to claw through him at any moment. While everything the man said was probably right, John was growing increasingly frustrated with the situation and all these threatening wolves stepping into his immediate space. His hands shook with the anger he was holding back. John hadn't known he was going to happen upon a den of secluded werewolves, it hadn't been anything he planned on doing, and now this man's whinging was prodding at his nerves. 

He breathed deeply, knowing that Sherlock was looking for a reason to provoke John. The room was filled with murmurs and the scent of anxiety and anger. Anderson was still condemning him, while Greg stood defensively in front of John, his deep growl underlining his words as he tried to put the other man back in line. Sally was speaking harshly with Sherlock, gesturing angrily in John's direction while Victor stared unerringly at John, a queer smirk settled contently on his lips.

Molly fidgeted nervously where she sat, foot tapping nervously against the floor with a dull echo. It seemed like the noise was reaching a climax when a deep voice rang with command throughout the room. 

"Enough!" 

Everyone, including John, flinched in surprise, turning wide eyes onto their leader, who was still messaging his temples roughly. "Anderson, sit down and be quiet, you're lowering the IQ of everyone in the room. I'd rather throw myself in a pit of hunters than be subjected to your insistent rambling and inability to form complete sentences with 'grown up' words." 

Anderson's mouth fell open piteously, speechless as he was singled out and insulted before the pack. 

Sherlock stood and walked to the center of the living room, lips curled up in a mocking sneer. "The situation has already been assessed, while you were sleeping in your beds, sucking your thumbs and holding your pillows, all of these things have already been considered." He turned to Anderson, stalking forward. "If you would like to challenge me, feel free to do so, but remember, I'm not a kind man, and I don't extend mercy to those who are not deserving of it." Sherlock loomed over a positively frightened Anderson now, tall and imposing, showing no signs of contrition or signs of deceit. John knew what kind of wolf that Sherlock was, and he didn't doubt a word the man said.

The man John guessed was Victor, who had been quiet up until that point stood and placed a calming hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "No one is challenging you Sherlock, we are all just worried." 

Sherlock glared at Anderson until the smaller male backed down, eyes falling to his feet in shamed deference. He relaxed slightly, before shrugging off the hand on his shoulder as he turned his glower onto Lestrade.

"I want him in the room directly across the hall from mine, where I can keep an eye on our guest." Pale, severe eyes flickered over John's body fleetingly, narrowing on his hands where they were still clasped behind his back. John fought the urge to squirm under Sherlock's scrutiny, feeling his face flushing with heat uncomfortably. Maybe he imagined the shift in Sherlock's harsh features that belayed amusement. In the blink of an eye, any emotions the man had displayed were swiftly packed away, and he was once again, an infuriatingly blank canvas.

"Of course," Lestrade nodded, placing a hand on John's shoulder to steer him to a set of stairs leading further up into the house. Behind them, the whispers floated to his ears, unintelligible but hostile, none the less. John turned to see Victor kneeling beside Sherlock's chair, where the alpha had returned to reclaim his seat, lips almost touching the other man's ear as he spoke. Sherlock's legs were crossed, body leaning toward the blond, but his eyes tracked John's movements across the room. Those piercing eyes were the last thing John saw before he and Lestrade rounded the corner and were out of sight.


	4. The Shadow Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an encounter with Sherlock that leaves him rattled, but also piques his curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sherlock is a little dark in this chapter, and according to your tastes, you may or may not find him a likeable person.

John didn't have a moment alone until Lestrade had him comfortably settled into his temporary accommodations. It wasn't a terribly large room, but big enough for one to move around without bumping into furniture. There was a twin bed pushed up against the far wall, a plain white quilt and bedding folded neatly at the end. The windows had been boarded up with wood slats, so minimal natural light entered into the room besides a few slant rays peeking through the gaps. The only source of light was a reading lamp that sat on a side table beside the bed, illuminating only the immediate area.  
The only other furnishing in the room was an antiquated chest of drawers pushed into a dark corner of the room. The temperature was a bit low for John's liking, but as far as lodgings, this was far better than he had anticipated receiving.  
  
John sighed and went to sit on the bed, finding the mattress firm and stiff, unyielding beneath his bum. Oh well, he would make do. John had slept on worse in the military.  
  
Lestrade had left the door firmly open, casting John a meaningful look as he exited. Directly across the hall, a door was slightly ajar, opening to what John assumed were Sherlock's quarters. The man certainly hadn't been exaggerating when he'd stated that he wanted to keep an eye on John. Sherlock would have the perfect view into his room, and likewise for John.  
  
John's eyes scanned around the room searching for anything to keep his mind off of the past several days. The excitement of the last several hours had kept his mind occupied, but now John couldn't keep the image of his kin away, dead eyes staring back at him, lips slack and bloodied. It took his breath away, and before John knew it, he was pulling his legs on the bed and into his chest to quell the pain he felt there.  
  
It felt as if every bond John had formed with his pack mates was being severed painfully and individually. He felt the loss of them all acutely.  
  
His hands trembled where they wrapped around to grip his legs, unable to contain the sob that broke violently from his throat. John felt like retching until there was nothing left of him. He'd never known a sorrow like what he was feeling. When he left Sherlock's pack within a few short days, he would truly be alone, with nothing but the knowledge that the only thing awaiting him were the hunters and a sure death.  
  
_'Be strong, John_ ,' he heard Harry's voice echo, words she'd told him many times throughout their life, now whispered like a ghostly message into his ear. John would never be able to hear those words again, because Harry wouldn't be alive to say them.  
  


His shoulders trembled violently as sobs wracked his frame, remembering the last time he spoke with his sister. She had been about to ask Clara to marry her, and she'd shown John the simple, but elegant wedding band she had purchased the day before. John couldn't remember a time when her blue eyes had lit up the way they did when she'd told John of her plan to take Clara out and surprise her. He never did get to save the band; he'd hoped to bury her with it. And Bill... they had gotten into a row over something so insignificant, John didn't even remember what it was; the kind you find yourself being pulled into when you've been with someone for so long.

It felt as if someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing, at the memories. John had to leave and bury his kin; that was the only way he was going to find peace in their deaths.

A soft creak pulled his attention to the door, where the timid woman from earlier stood, regarding John with wariness and what John could only describe as pity. He swiped a shaky hand over his cheeks and straightened his back like the soldier that he was, feet now flat on the floor.  
  
In a bowl she held what looked like a roast stew, the aroma of it setting John's mouth to water. He had eaten what seemed only like an hour ago, but his body was still recovering and craved the sustenance.  
  
"Hello," John greeted, voice still rough with disuse and emotions. "You can come in."  
  
The woman hesitated for a moment, fretting silently where she stood at the bedroom entrance, before she visibly steeled herself and stepped forward, holding out the the bowl to John.  
  
"I've brought you some stew. Thought you might be hungry." John stood to meet her in the center of the room, walking slowly and making himself seem smaller so she didn't feel threatened. "I'm Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper."  
  
John smiled graciously, accepting the bowl with a nod. "Thank you, Ms. Hooper." He held the bowl with one hand and the other out for the woman to shake, which she took with a surprisingly strong grip into her own softer one. "John Watson."  
  
After they parted, Molly tucked a stray hair behind her ear and folded her arms around her body. "You can call me Molly, if you'd like." She smiled kindly, and something in John's body uncoiled, the tension draining slightly out of his body.  
  
John nodded, rocking back on his heels, unable to keep from returning her smile. Besides Lestrade, that had been the first sincere smile John had seen in days, and the gentle look in her brown eyes steadied his frayed nerves.  
  
"I-," she began nervously, eyes flicking to her feet and back to John cautiously, "I just wanted to say I'm sorry about your-- about what happened to your pack. I can't imagine how-," she broke off, lifting the fingers of one hand to her lips.  
  
John backed away until he felt the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and lowered himself slowly.  
  
It still didn't feel real, even though the emptiness in his head where he should feel the bond of his kin felt empty and hollow. He was naught but a lone wolf in unfamiliar territory, endangering a pack that despised him for unintentionally revealing their location.  
  
Even though he despaired of his position and life at the moment, John smiled and thanked the kind woman once more.  
  
Molly's cheeks glowed a bright red as she cleared her throat, and she pointed with her thumb over her shoulder "Well, I'll let you get to it then," she said, nodding towards the bowl, some of her awkward timidity replaced now that she realized John wasn't a threat. "I'm just down the hall of you need me. First door on the left."  
  
The corner of her lips quirked up the tiniest bit before she turned on her heel and strode out of the room, leaving the door where it was as she went.  
  
John looked down at the stew, where chunks of beef peeked out from the broth, little carrots and potatoes dancing around the bowl. He'd been hungry before, but now the thought of eating made him nauseous, so John set the bowl upon the table and turned on his side to lay down on the bare mattress, back to the door.  
  
John closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away, surrendered to the knowledge that even in sleep, he would find no refuge.  
  
\---

It was a loud thump that tore him from his sleep this time. The lamp was on in the room, the light not reaching farther than the desk the lamp was perched upon, where his forgotten bowl of stew sat congealing. The corners of the room were pitch dark as was the doorway, and John's tired eyes had not yet adjusted. The thump sounded again, this time accompanied by a light, breathy moan.  
  
' _What_ _the_ hell _?_ ' John wondered, curiosity thoroughly piqued, as well as mortified at the thought of what he might possibly see when his vision finally cleared.  
  
At last, he could see that Sherlock's door had been shut sometime while he was sleeping, and John had no doubt that's where the noise had come from.  
  
A groaned "Sherlock" reached his ear, echoed by a growl that managed to send John's heart on a marathon run inside his chest. There was obviously something intimate going on in the next room, and John fell back onto the bed, feeling a familiar tug in his lower belly.  
  
No, that would be very not good if he allowed himself to become aroused by Sherlock and his mystery lover having loud, passionate sex in the next room.  
  
Right on queue, John heard the tell-tale sound of slapping skin. John had never been shy about sex and had enthusiastically engaged in it before his time with Bill and during, but hearing Sherlock, the cold, antagonizing alpha, vigorously participating in the next room had the skin on John's arms prickling with heat.  
  
John's enhanced hearing suddenly felt like a curse, and he wondered idly, staring up at the water stained ceiling, if he was the only one being subjected to listen to Sherlock go at it across the hall.  
  
Before he could delve further into his unbidden thoughts, John crossed the room to shut the door, despite Lestrade's unspoken order. Nope, he wasn't listening to that all night.  
  
Thankfully, the sounds were muffled further as John quietly pushed the door closed, releasing the knob slowly so it didn't make a sound when he let go. He pressed his forehead against the wood, inhaling slowly. John couldn't allow himself to get wrapped up in anything that went on here. He was an interloper, the way they saw it, and it was all the same to John if it stayed that way. He was only a temporary fixture here, until he was well enough to leave and gather his former pack mates for a proper burial.  
  
John tried to convince himself he didn't care who Sherlock had with him in that room, but the tiny tingle of jealousy lingered in the corner of his mind.  
  
John returned to his bed and resumed his original position facing the wall, this time, unable to fall asleep again.  
  
What could have been twenty minutes later, John wasn't sure as he had no clock to keep the time, the door across the hall opened quietly, the old wood emitting a soft groan.  
  
"... I'm just warning you to keep your eyes on that one, Sherlock. He can't be trusted." It was Victor, the man he'd seen before in the lounge room; the one who'd made him the most unsettled of them all. He reminded John of a snake, and he imagined the man slithering his body around Sherlock and whispering treacherous lies into his ear, wrapped in charming clothes to disguise their deceitfulness.  
  
Yes, John had met many men like Victor, and he could spot one just as quick. Everything in John was repelled by the man; all John needed to know about him was apparent in that last moment between them in the lounge, as Victor sat smiling smugly in the midst of ensuing chaos, like the cat who ate the canary.  
  
Sherlock's voice was harsh with annoyance at he replied to the man in short clipped tones. "I don't need you to ' _warn'_ me of anything, Victor. John Watson is my concern and none of yours. See that it stays that way."  
  
"Alright," Victor surrendered, though John could still hear the frown in his voice. "Fine. When he turns on us, don't say I didn't warn you to get rid of him."  
  
Sherlock snorted, and John knew things were about to take an ugly turn. The fact that it was going to happen right outside his door was a bonus. It would be nice to hear Victor taken down a notch. John had never been a vindictive person, but Victor wasn't a particularly nice man, either.  
  
"Victor, you seem to be under the persuasion that because I allow you to warm my bed on occasion, that you have some sort of power over me," Sherlock said calmly, as if speaking of the weather, and John could feel his face heat up, almost feeling pity for the man in which Sherlock's scathing diatribe was directed. "Don't believe for one moment that you hold anymore importance than you actually do. Whatever absurd, romantic notion you have of us, it would do you good to get rid of it."  
  
By the end, even John found himself gasping quietly as the tense silence between the two men stretched on for an interminable number of minutes. That had been the single most hateful thing John had ever heard anyone say, and he wondered how is it that anyone would willingly follow a callous, uncaring man like Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Victor, John assumed, released a long, shaky breath before he hissed out, "Fuck you, Sherlock," and stomped off without any regard for the people that might be sleeping, or were they awake like John, listening to this undeniably embarrassing dressing down that took place right outside his door.  
  
The silence didn't last long afterward. John snapped his eyes shut as his door flung open, hitting the wall with force. John should have known Sherlock would be feeling antagonistic after his argument with Victor, but really, that was quite rude.  
  
John gave up his sleeping act, knowing Sherlock would see right through his farce, and sat up slowly to face the door, actively avoiding Sherlock's predatory glare like a guilty child.  
  
Sherlock loomed in the door like a shadow man, swallowing light like a black hole. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and commanding. "I want this door open at all times, understood?"  
  
John rolled his eyes and fell back onto the mattress as Holmes stalked forward, pale eyes darting around the room and taking everything in, making sure John had no means of escape or hidden weapons. He snorted unattractively at the dark haired man. "Why, so I can hear you shagging again?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits, sliding over John's face, the other man feeling flayed and vulnerable under the scrutiny. "John Watson, is that jealousy I detect?" His tone was cynical and John felt the beginnings of vexation creeping up on him. He knew Sherlock was in a black mood and trying to rile him up, but John wasn't going to bite the bait; he pleaded with himself not to. "Oh John, if you wanted me to bed you, all you had to do was ask," Sherlock breathed in a rumbled purr.  
  
John turned over and sat up, having had just about enough of Sherlock's idiotic comments. "One, I wouldn't lower myself to lay with you if my life depended on it, and two, if you treat your lovers anything like that guy, I would rather die before jumping into bed with your sorry, arrogant arse."  
  
Sherlock stared at him in appraisal, and John was surprised to see he looked slightly pleased. "Careful Watson, you'll give yourself away." The man folded his hands behind his back and slowly stalked the length of the room. "You're acting like a man who has something to hide." He turned to regard John then, eyes dragging up John's body and back.  
  
"You think you know all there is to know about me, hm," John whispered, voice thick with emotions he couldn't begin to describe, "but you don't know as much as you think you do."  
  
A dark chuckle emerged from Sherlock, a mocking, hateful sound that made John's skin crawl viciously. All the attraction John could admit having towards the man had fled in the face of his ugly bitterness. Slowly, he walked up to the bed until he nearly stood between John's legs, whose back straightened like a pencil at the invasion of his personal space, and knelt down to come face-to-face with him, hands coming to rest on the mattress on either side of John's thighs.  
  
Sherlock peered at John from beneath dark lashes, sharp eyes knowing, lips tilted at the corner. "You think I don't know your secrets." Leaning close, the man placed his lips to John's ear, soft lips brushing at the cartilage there. You have no idea what I'm capable of."  
  
John could feel his heart rate elevate and his face heat up tremendously under the intensity of Sherlock's quicksilver gaze. A long, thin finger came up to trail over John's cheek intimately. "Even now, your body is telling me everything I need to know, and you're afraid because you can't control it."  
  
John was pretty sure he hadn't breathed from the moment Sherlock had knelt down before him, and now, he exhaled a tremulous breath. The finger trailed down John's jaw and to his neck, where it rested on his carotid artery, over his racing pulse. "Interesting," the man mused, eyes far away as they drifted down to where his finger was pressing.  
  
Dazed as he felt, it took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was toying with him, picking him apart ruthlessly. John scowled and slapped Sherlock's hand away. "Get away from me," he hissed, angry at Sherlock for his petty games and himself for falling into it blindly.  
  
Sherlock pulled away and stood up, though that infuriating smirk never left his lips. "Maybe I will keep you," he murmured quietly, considering John in a way that sent a shock of wakefulness to his libido.  
  
"I'm not yours to keep," John replied defiantly, coming to stand in the center of the room with Sherlock so as to even the playing field. All this looming over him was starting to become irksome. He wasn't fooled by the man and his fake smiles. He saw the darkness in Sherlock's eyes.  
  
What could the alpha have possibly gone through to become so cold. John found himself honestly wanting to know the truth of Sherlock's past, though there was no way to read it on his skin or his face, or the way he held himself.  
  
Sherlock smiled, something that could be striking if John didn't see the feral wolf that peeked out at him from behind blue eyes and gleaming teeth. "You could be."  
  
The simple statement made John falter, but only for a moment. He wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten under his skin.  
  
The man watched him for a moment longer, that frustrating smile sliding off his lips as his intelligent gaze grew calculating. The sudden change in the atmosphere startled John, so he backed away a few steps, wanting to be as far from Sherlock as he could get.  
  
A moment later, the brunet turned on his heel and strode to the door, but not before John had seen a flicker of a shadow fall over Sherlock's alien features. When he turned back to John at the door, his face had gone curiously blank.  
  
"Get your rest, Watson. You will be accompanying the pack when we go on patrol tomorrow morning. We don't need you falling behind."  
  
Without awaiting a response from John, the man crossed the hall into his own room, leaving both doors wide open. He disappeared somewhere off to the side where John could not see him, but he knew Sherlock was still tracking his every move.  
  
John retired back to the bed, laying on his back to stare up at the ceiling.  
  
What on _earth_ had he gotten himself into?  
  



	5. Submission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock forces John to submit, and tempers run hot when Victor challenges the newcomer.

That night, John dreamed of Sherlock, of gleaming pointed teeth and glowing pale eyes that followed him in the darkness. Wherever he was, it was void of any light and he could hear echoes and whispers playing off of hollow surfaces, but his sight failed him.

Here he felt hollowed and emptied, and his feet were rooted like trees. Underfoot, John felt the sharp pain of brittle fragments cutting into the soles of his bare feet, and knew, without a doubt just as he held the knowledge that grass was green and Earth was a planet, that they were bones.

What little breeze there was swept through, bringing with it the scent of decay, and whispers of anguish flowed softly through John's bleeding ears.

They were the solemn voices of his dead pack mates, and they all uttered a solitary warning.

 _Run_.

\---

John jolted awake shortly thereafter, wiping sweat away with hands that trembled violently under his duress.

The room was as bright as it could get in the morning, with the wooden slats blocking out almost all of the natural light. The lamp was off, so the corners of the room that weren't illuminated stayed firmly ensconced in a forbidding darkness.

John rolled onto his side looking out into the pitch black void of Sherlock's bedroom where the man had disappeared last night. John could remember waking sometime in the early hours to the gentle strains of a violin singing out something dark and pensive, a wordless reverie. It was beautiful, and John felt himself inspired to find out more about this newfound talent of Sherlock's.

John sat up slowly, willing the wary ache in his bones to settle and the pain in his shoulder to dull to a lesser degree. Somewhere in the hall, he could hear the low murmurs of a conversation. John recognized one as Lestrade, unable to mistake that gruff voice, the result of having been a smoker most of his life, John assumed.

He pulled his legs over the side of the bed and walked quietly to the door, poking his head out after throwing a tentative glance in the direction of Sherlock's room.

Lestrade and Molly both nursed steaming cups of tea, heavily caffeinated as far as John could smell. The pair of them had already turned to greet him before John even realized that they noticed him approaching. 

Lestrade was the first to react, smiling amicably at John and raising his cup in acknowledgement. John returned the greeting politely, feeling frumpy and unkempt in Lestrade's recycled clothing. "John," the grey haired man nodded, "sleep well?"

John thought back to the jagged bones and the consuming darkness; Sherlock's omniscient glowing glare piercing through him. "Yes, thank you," he lied, "like a baby."

John didn't miss Lestrade's sceptical look, stifled tactically behind his cup of tea as he lifted it to his lips and took a small sip.

"Molly," he said, by way of greeting, watching her cheeks redden slightly as she smiled. Molly was cute, but it was obvious in the way that Lestrade hovered proprietarily next to her that she was being courted by the older man, if not already his mate.

John shook his head at his own thoughts. Bill was still a heavy burden on his heart and John was desperate for comfort. In his weakened, addled state, he was in no place to be looking for a mate. Besides, who wanted a broken, lonely wolf who had already shown he couldn't protect himself let alone his pack mates.

Lestrade cleared his throat quietly, drawing John's attention back to the older man as he turned and started down the hall, motioning for the other two to follow. "Usually before we eat in the morning, we do a run of the grounds. Sherlock requires us all to meet in the lounge room."

As they entered into the room from before, John could feel the ripple of tension as well as a few notable glares from some of the other wolves. Victor, in particular, sat sulking on the couch, legs and arms crossed as he evaluated John closely with disdainful scrutiny. If looks could kill, well, John would be puddle of viscera on the floor.

"Well, if it isn't our damsel in distress," Victor crooned blandly, fingers tapping lightly on his biceps.

John ignored his comment but levelled the man with his best captain's stare, the one he'd give to his cadets to stop them shooting off at the mouth or put them back in line of need be. It always worked, and this time was no different. Victor straightened up the slightest, mouth drawing in to a thin, pale line.

Victor was a coward; John didn't need to antagonize him to know that. It was his own kin that Sherlock needed to keep an eye out for. In his pack, Bill had been the alpha, and never hesitated to put one back into their place; his retribution was always swift. Bill had been a respectable man, and rarely had to assert his dominance to get people to follow him and John had admired him for that. Rarely did any of the pack members step out of form, and no one had the guts or the inclination to try and usurp Bill, but here, John could see it was a very real possibility with Sherlock's headstrong band of wolves.

Victor sniffed snidely and looked pointedly away from John, dark green eyes narrowing shrewdly as Sherlock appeared in the doorway. His dark hair stood up wild and unruly, characteristics John found himself associating with the alpha now; something that could not be tamed.

His eyes wondered the room, skirting dismissively over Victor, who pouted in response to the easy dismissal, and landing on John almost immediately. "Ah, good," he murmured, "we're all here." Then, without a segue of any kind, the man began to strip down.

The others followed in kind, as though it were usual. John wasn't terribly shy about his body, but he didn't know any of these wolves, and he didn't trust them either.

In John's pack, they were fairly modest about their nakedness. Oftentimes they went through the shift in private, just out of respect for one another. John never really found comfort in shifting with the pack, due in part to his war wound and the sorry sight of his aging body, which was not quite as fit as it once was. Bill was the only one who had regularly seen John naked at any point.

Here, the women and men alike shifted as a group, Lestrade being one of the last, as he was tasked with opening the door, which would require human hands. For them, it wasn't as if they were forced to stand and get undressed before one another, though this pack was clearly comfortable doing so, it was just their way of life; they were more in touch with their animalistic side than John had known previously. Everyone kept their eyes respectfully above the waist, though peered around every so often to monitor their fellow packmates. John also knew that going through the shift near other wolves aided what could be a brutal process.

John slowly acquiesced, pulling the jumper over his head and starting on the vest below. The others of the pack were focused on the motions of the shift, but Sherlock was unabashedly watching John as he stripped, nimble fingers also divesting himself of clothing. There was nothing sexual that John could see in Sherlock's observation, but the scrutiny made him feel akin to a specimen under a microscope. Pale eyes traversed his body as one would a map, making note of his scars and the slight trembling of John's hand where it worked to unzip his fly.

John's skin was crawling almost intolerably, the wolf inside prodding insistently at him to relinquish control and give over to the beast. He grit his teeth at the unpleasant sensation building up, like claws raking violently down his chest; of a million tiny insects marching under his skin; fire licking at his feet. Changes were always intense for John, so much that it left him gasping and curled into himself when it was over.

After the army, where John had been forced to suppress his wolf, the first change following his discharge had been extremely unpleasant. John had been close to death that night. Harry found him covered in blood and self-inflicted wounds, naked and dehydrated. He'd gone feral.

A deep, throaty growl rumbled through the floorboards beneath John's bare feet, pulling him from his dark memories, and he glanced over through the haze of his own change to see Sherlock, weight balanced on both feet with one hand braced on the ground while his skin trembled and blurred. Sherlock's bared teeth had lengthened into sharp points and his jaw creaked ominously as his mandible stretched to accommodate the new form.

John's body was singing for the change and the adrenaline felt like fire coursing through his veins, invigorating him and numbing the discomfort. He doubled over, unable to stand upright any longer as he succumbed to the wolf.

The room was filled with a symphony of groans and full throated growls that rattled the windows, parodies of thunder, and just as powerful.

When the transformation was complete, the room fell silent, awaiting a command from the alpha as they all looked to Sherlock.

As a man, Sherlock was something to behold, tall and distinguished. He emanated power and grace, something often forced, but very rarely authentic, but as a wolf, he was daunting; otherworldly. Sherlock towered over the others easily, all steel, tensed muscles and thick black coat that was just as wild as his human hair. He was every bit the monster of nightmares, dark and frightening with eyes that glowed pale and translucent against his deep brown fur. Sherlock was undeniably the leader, and all the other wolves waited with bated breath for their alpha's signal.

John could already feel the grass kicking up under his feet, the call of the woods whispering notions of freedom into his ears. Jesus, he wanted to run.

The pull was so strong, John doubted any of the others weren't feeling it. It unified them, connected them with one powerful current that placed them on the same wavelength. They were one, now, and John had to fight against himself to push away the tremendous wave of anguish at the thought that he would never feel this with his kin again.

John sat perfectly still, waiting for the moment when he could stretch his feet and forget. Sherlock stalked forward until he came to stand before John, pale gaze sharp and intelligent with knowledge beyond that of any animal. He was sizing John up, circling him, _challenging_ him.

Then the dark wolf was turning quicker than the human eye could catch, shooting through the open door like a prize colt at the Epsom Downs. The others followed closely behind, splitting up as they reached the edge of the woods. Victor, Sally, and Anderson veered off to the left, now in the form of two tanned wolves and one inky black, disappearing into the wall of trees that bordered the territory.

John followed behind Sherlock, Molly, and Lestrade as they darted through the trees opposite the direction of the other three. Sherlock was a challenge to keep up with as he darted around trees and leaped over small streams, enormous paws kicking up clouds of dirt and mud. The man was intractable as a wolf, running almost as if he were trying to shake them off of his tail.

Abruptly, Lestrade's pacing cooled to a light stride as he placed his nose close to the ground, tracking scents the further into the woods they went. Sherlock slowed eventually as well, trotting from one place to the next, sniffing and pawing through piles of leaves and dirt. John followed suit, smelling for traces that hunters might leave behind if they were to venture into the forest. Most hunters were exceptionally skilled at evasion, but werewolves had the olfactory senses of a wolf magnified by five, so even something as tiny as a drop of sweat would alert them that someone had been there.

Above them, the sun shone brightly through the thin canopy of trees, illuminating the clearing they were slowly making their way through. In the distance, John could see a hare watching them warily, ready to turn and dart at a moment's notice, behind it, two leverets hovered close to their mother.

He didn't realize how much he missed the change, and running loose in the wild in his true form. These days, even in the remote countryside where it was less populated, it was dangerous for the werewolves to shed their skin. They were widely hunted now, after a very public, extremely violent rash of attacks on civilians and opposing politicians from a group of extremist werewolves that took place more than a decade earlier.

Very often John had heard of many old, dear friends captured and killed by humans in retribution for the murders.

John sniffed along the ground near where Sherlock was peering out into the trees beyond, nose held in the air to catch scents traveling downwind. In the open light, John could see just how large a wolf that Sherlock was. Beneath a dark brown coat, his muscles flexed and coiled as he moved about, and a vision of himself pinned beneath the powerful alpha had John turning away bashfully.

The last thing Sherlock needed was an ego boost, and John certainly didn't want the man getting any ideas.

John felt his fur stand up as a body came into close proximity with his own, and he looked up to see Sherlock much closer than he'd been a moment ago, circling John as he had before. John tracked the alpha's movement apprehensively, and together, the two of them began an intricate dance that even John couldn't begin to explain.

Sherlock stopped again in front of him, looming over John as he was wont to do  even as a human. This time, John read the spark of mischief there. One minute, Sherlock was towering over his erect form, and then John was off, tailing him through thick brush and running faster than he ever had.

Sherlock took every narrow turn he came across and never avoided the harrowing leaps, as his long legs carried him further distances than John's shorter ones could ever aspire to. He ducked under a large branch, barely missing it as it slapped back from the force of Sherlock's body.

John ran with pure exhilaration fueling every stride, crashing through thick blockades of foliage. The wild stretched endlessly on all sides, and yet he was blindly chasing a madman through swooping tree limbs and muddy clearings; a man who had already threatened to kill him more than two times and maybe, sort of made a pass at him last night.

It was a moment filled with contradictions, chasing after a wolf he felt compelled to run away from, yet John couldn't bring himself to flee. The opportunity for escape was being dangled under his nose like steak to a starving man, and yet, John refused the offer, not wanting to stoke Sherlock's ire.

John had been so trapped in his own thoughts, caught up in the thrill of excitement, that he hadn't bothered to track Sherlock when he'd suddenly veered off course and out of sight. He stopped, panting, as he surveyed the unfamiliar area he'd blindly followed Sherlock to, chastising himself for taking his eyes off of the unpredictable alpha. John knew instinctively that a predator was nearby, stalking him, watching him through the thick veil of underbrush on him, following his progress across the clearing as he stepped lightly, leaves crunching loudly underfoot. He hoped to God it was Sherlock, because at the moment, he was just as much a prey as he was the hunter.

Just as on the first night however, he didn't stand a chance. Sherlock's heavy weight barreled into him heavily from behind, and John had the sudden thought that this was what being hit by a lorry felt like. It was more of a controlled, tactical attack, where on the first night, Sherlock had been running on pure instincts in the act of protecting his territory.

John yelped in shock and pain, as his body propelled forward violently into the dirt. He slowly rolled onto his side, dazed and struggling to regain his breath from the sudden onslaught. Sherlock barely afforded him time to recover, pouncing just as soon as John was gaining coherence again, nearly pinning John to the forest floor with sharp, clawed paws.

Abruptly, it dawned on John what the alpha was attempting to do. Sherlock wanted him to surrender, to bare his belly and submit, but John Watson never took such a thing lightly, and he certainly wasn't going to hand a victory to this wanker.

John pushed back against the larger wolf with the bulk of his body. Where Sherlock was large and an overly aggressive fighter, John was compact and sturdy, capable of holding his own against an opponent twice his size. He used his smaller size to his advantage, feigning lunges only to slip under Sherlock's deadly grasp. His victory didn't last long, however, as the trick only worked once on the cleverer wolf, and John had to quickly assimilate a new plan to outdo the alpha.

Sherlock was proving to be an unpredictable opponent. The beast was quick and agile, many times almost catching John's jugular between his razor like teeth whenever the smaller of the two thought he had the upper hand. It was almost embarrassing how easily Sherlock made it all seem, like a game of catch, except it was anything but. For a wolf his size, Sherlock was incredibly light on his feet and knowledgeable about when it was wise to use his height or weight to his advantage.

For kilometers around, their frustrated growls were the only sounds as they tumbled together over fronds of bracket, snapping at one another's throats. While the intent to kill one another was not present, John knew that this was as much a show of strength and stamina as it was Sherlock's means to subduing a willful, stubborn wolf. John needed to show that he could hold his own against a larger, more superior opponent, even if taken by surprise.

John wasn't sure why Sherlock was testing him. The alpha had made it pretty clear that after a few days, John was to leave directly thereafter, and he'd been okay with that. However, after running with the pack, getting involved even though he knew it was the worst possible thing he could do, John was drawn to the pack life. No matter how much he tried to convince himself he could travel alone, John found himself dreading the day Sherlock kicked him out on his arse, where he would be forced into isolation. He was not a loner; he needed the companionship.

Without the protection that pack life could provide, John's life expectancy would go down by half. One day he would stumble upon territory wherein the pack leader would not be as accommodating.

It had been a good try, but Sherlock eventually came out on top as the better fighter of the two, and John ended up on his back with a row of sharp teeth poised to break through the skin of his neck. John hated to yield, but his instincts screamed for him to submit to his superior before he found himself bleeding out in the dirt. A deep, mind numbing growl now reverberated down the length of his body, originating from the alpha that held him pinned to the ground.

John allowed his body to go slack in response to the warning. Sherlock wasn't asking for his surrender, he was _ordering_ John to submit.

After a tense moment, John forced himself to bare his throat and belly, showing the other male that he wasn't a threat nor a contender trying to usurp him. After an interminable amount of time, Sherlock finally relented and removed his considerable bulk, allowing for John to roll over and onto his feet.

It wasn't until he had righted himself and followed Sherlock back to the rest of the pack that John realized what he'd just done.

\---

After patrolling a little further into the woods, the pack regrouped and made their way back to the den, exhausted and hungry after the morning exercise.

John trailed behind Lestrade and Sherlock, knowing that the others didn't trust him to walk behind them yet. He wasn't ready for another tussle, so he silently assented, plodding along beside Molly.

His frame was still throbbing from the attack earlier, but he felt curiously sated after the impromptu tussle with the alpha. It felt right to have someone to follow; it felt right to John to submit and surrender his control to another entity. Though he would probably be leaving in a few short days once he'd fully recovered strength, John thought it wise to show Sherlock that he didn't have anything to fear from him. It would make his stay a lot smoother if the man weren't antagonizing him at every turn.

Back at the den, the pack split off to clean and ready themselves for the day. John was thankful when Lestrade brought him another set of clothes to wear, and though they were a little long on him, it felt good to change out of the ones he'd slept in. The hot shower eased the tension from his aching limbs and allowed John the tranquility to think of the last hour spent running with the pack.

Sherlock was an odd alpha, one that seemed irresponsible and carefree; despairing of his position as pack leader. In the forest, Sherlock had run off without a thought for Molly or Lestrade's safety, but John assumed it happened often, because neither one of the wolves pursued him. Even though these were the qualities of an abhorrent leader, John found it embarrassingly easy to submit to Sherlock.

On the opposite end, the dark wolf was a ferocious opponent and dangerously territorial. When the time came, John had no doubts that the alpha would be at the front line, ready to fight for the lives of his pack. John thought back to the night he had the misfortune of attracting Sherlock's attention, and struggled to repress the shudder at the gruesome memory. He may have shown John mercy that night, but he held no illusions about what the endgame would be if he crossed Sherlock.

Within pack dynamics, strength was everything; there could be no weak link in the chain. Either you fight, or you die. Earlier, Sherlock had forced John to prove his worth and strength, and afterward, the man seemed oddly satisfied, as if John had pleased him in some way. He didn't miss the glimmer of respect he saw in Sherlock's eyes, and John was sure that his own were reflecting the same.

Lestrade was waiting for him when John stepped out of the bathroom. The older man lead them through the kitchen and into a dining room, where the pack was already gathered.

"... Oh, Sherlock, would you put that dreadful thing away! Your mother would be appalled at your table manners! Time was, we didn't have any of those little gadgets, if you can believe it. We actually held conversation at the table during meals-"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock cut off the elderly woman's admonishment between gritted teeth, "if you'll please bring the food to the table. We're all more than a bit hungry."

The woman tsked in disapproval at Sherlock and turned, freezing when she saw John standing there, appearing swallowed up in Lestrade's large jumper.

"Oh my, I didn't realize we had company," she turned to Sherlock, placing her hands on her hips with a motherly frown at the disgruntled alpha. "Sherlock, you might have told me; I could have done a fry-up!"

The woman returned her attention to John and smiled brightly with gleaming, kind brown eyes. "Martha Hudson," she introduced, holding out a small, frail hand, and John took it, surprised by the strength of her grip. "And what might I call you?"

John smiled, already developing a strong fondness for the elderly lady. "John Watson, ma'am."

"Well, John, come and sit, and we'll get you fed up. Poor thing, you're skin and bones," Mrs. Hudson tutted, pushing John into the chair between where Sherlock sat at the head of the table and Lestrade, who was situated to his right. Unfortunately, that left John sitting opposite an affronted Victor. "No matter, dear; a few proper meals will sort you right out."

Sherlock sighed loudly beside him, eyes rolling dramatically, heavenward, beseeching. "Great, now that we've concluded the niceties, would you care to serve the food now, Mrs. Hudson," he snarled, picking up his phone, albeit, just to spite the elderly woman.

"Wouldn't hurt you to help once in awhile, young man," Mrs. Hudson chastised as she retreated to the kitchen.

John stood to follow her, wanting to offer a hand in assistance, but Sherlock stopped him with a sharp look. "Sit," he ordered John brusquely, "Anderson, help Mrs. Hudson with the spread," he shot to the pale faced man at the end of the table, who complied readily enough, though it looked as if he was sucking on a lemon.

John obeyed, lowering himself back into his chair under Sherlock's watchful eyes and stared right back, unimpressed by Sherlock's dominant little display. He would rather not get into a row with the man when things were going so smoothly, but the leader's abrasive personality left much to be desired.

Victor cleared his throat tightly, breaking the moment between Sherlock and himself, and turning his body towards Sherlock in a way that clearly advertised that John was excluded from the conversation. "We found signs of movement along the southern border, near the stream. Sally picked up a few scents, but nothing more was left behind that could provide us the data we need to determine whether they were actually hunters."

With every word that fell from Victor's lips, the glare forming on Sherlock's face grew more vicious. "You idiots wait to tell me now," he hissed in frustration, standing from the table. Mrs. Hudson was just emerging from the kitchen, hands full with steaming dishes, an annoyed Anderson following close behind. "Lestrade, Donovan, with me, now; you as well, John."

Mrs. Hudson sat the dishes down on the table while the named parties stood in varying degrees of alarm (Lestrade and John) and exasperation (Sally). "Where are you off to now? You've only just returned!"

"We have a situation, Mrs. Hudson. Keep the food warm. We'll be back soon," Sherlock clipped shortly, with barely restrained ire.

Victor jumped out of his chair, and came around the table to stand before Sherlock. "I'll come as well-"

"You've done enough for one day, Victor, you will stay here."

John stood beside Lestrade, warily observing the tense exchange between the alpha and his jilted lover. It felt like they were all infringing on an intimate moment, as it seemed. There was more to this argument than Victor's ability, or lack thereof, to inform Sherlock of possible threats in a timely manner.

Victor's face grew an angry, bright red, green eyes glowing furiously as he pointed an accusing finger at John. "Why are you taking him? He doesn't even belong here!"

If Sherlock's eyes were cold before, they were terrifyingly frigid now. "He goes, because I say he does. The safety of the pack is the only thing your silly little mind should be dwelling on, now stop your useless nattering and let us go on about our business!" That being said, the man pushed past Victor and swept out of the room impatiently, followed closely by Lestrade and Sally.

John made to leave as well, but a firm grip caught his arm as he attempted to skirt around the angry, blond man.

John followed the length of that arm up to the owner, feeling his body go dangerously still. This, he was familiar with. If it was a fight Victor was spoiling for, John would be all too happy to provide him with one. Quietly, he stated with a deadly cadence, "You might want to remove that hand."

Victor sneered, flashing a fatal row of sharpened teeth, but complied with John and removed his hand. "Watch your fucking back, dog," he hissed, and somewhere in the room, he heard a quiet gasp, though he paid it no mind.

John pursed his lips, and turned to evaluate his opponent, looking for possible weaknesses; the right places to aim for if he needed to restrain Victor, and of course, John's chances of sinking his teeth into the man's jugular. John realized he wanted this fight, he ached for it. His skin vibrated with the need to shed his human skin and _kill_. Victor didn't know what was coming to him, but he would soon enough.

"Alright, boys, that's about enough out of you two," Mrs. Hudson's voice piped up, cutting through the violent thoughts coursing through John's mind. "Go on now, John, Sherlock is waiting for you, dear."

John breathed deeply, nodding in acknowledgment and thanks to the elderly woman.

John walked out to meet the waiting wolves, fully aware of the eyes drawing targets on his back.


	6. Cerberus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack runs into a few... problems, and Sherlock and John sort out issues.

John was still fuming when he made it outside to join Sherlock and the others, burning with a fury that held the potential to ignite the ground beneath his feet. John was never a hot-headed individual, but here in this strange territory, with this ragtag group of werewolves, he was on high alert and not quite as sound of mind as he was before his pack was so brutally slaughtered.

Lestrade, sensing the change in John's mood and no doubt recognizing the primitive scent of his anger, regarded him warily as he emerged through the front door. "All right," he asked quietly, walking beside him once John was caught up.

Sherlock was striding up ahead, throwing his clothes haphazardly in his wake in the haste to inspect the possible threat of hunters along the southern border of the territory. John's eyes unerringly followed the valley of pale skin between Sherlock's rhomboids as his shirt is tugged up and off, the ripple of trapezius muscles against his back. The way he moves is liquid and graceful, but the wolf pushing to the forefront is deadly and savage, baring Sherlock's teeth in a frightening snarl as he begins to change once again.

The others follow suit, and the abrupt transition rattles John's bones painfully as he rushes the shift to keep pace with the alpha.

A pained grunt forces itself past his thinned lips as his spine snaps and bends forward, placing John on all fours against the grass. His pace is picking up now, even as his hands and feet begin to widen into large, clawed paws that pad heavily against the ground.

This time around, the air is charged with the excitement of the hunt; it fuels every stride they take, and the smell of fury and anticipation taints every inhalation. God, John _loves_ it.

The group makes their way to the treeline in the direction Victor's group split off to during the earlier patrol. John's feet meet in the air with every push forward, and kick up dirt on every landing; the synchronization of their coterie is beautiful as they run closer towards the potential enemy.

In that moment, John's vision is sharp with clarity and he's the strongest, fastest, bravest, cleverest that he's ever been. He feels alive; can feel the blood rushing through his limbs. It's the closest to a chemical high that John will ever come, and the taste of his elation is sweet like nectar.

The group comes quickly across the border and Sherlock stops suddenly, raising his nose to the wind, as his ears swivel on his head like orbiting satellites. John can feel his skin prickling, awaiting a signal from the alpha that they should carry on. Flanking him, Sally and Lestrade were vibrating with tension as they surveyed the surrounding areas. It was the female's growl that alerted them that something was off.

Sherlock's head whipped around to Sally, and then followed her gaze to the thick shrub on their left.

The ground was littered with tiny silver balls and a dark velvet pouch, as if it had been dropped in haste. In unison, their heads snapped up, and in the distance, further than the human eye could see, a figure ran frantically through the trees, stumbling clumsily over felled trees and tangled roots.

Sherlock growled darkly, and John felt it travel through his feet and into his bones, making them quake with restrained energy. The alpha was no longer simply a werewolf; he was a demon hound from hell, and John watched as Sherlock began to blend in seamlessly with the shadows as he darted forward. Sherlock's ears were pulled back against his head, his hackles a legion of pointed needles against his back, as he pursued the human with remorseless glee.

Lestrade and Sally followed, in much the same condition as their leader, but John hesitated behind them. Something felt wrong about this; his instincts were pulling him in the opposite direction. The hunters were never this sloppy.

Through the trees, John could see that the wolves were gaining on the man quickly. The three of them only had eyes for their target, so it was no surprise to John that they entirely overlooked the flicker of movement further off to their right.

 _Shit!_ It was an ambush.

The wolves were undoubtedly walking right into a hotbead of heavily armed hunters who wouldn't hesitate to shoot; it was a rarity that this lot missed their target.

John slunk off in the other direction, staying as close to the trees as he could get, hoping that his sandy coat would provide adequate camouflage amongst the foliage. As he drew closer, John dropped his belly lower to the ground, hunching behind a tall shrub and eyeing the unsuspecting human woman. She had one hand clutched to the semi-automatic strapped to her waist, waiting, it appeared, for the right moment to shoot.

Sherlock and company had already caught up with the man, and John could hear his cries, muffled by bloody gurgles as he was torn apart viciously. He had only been bait; expendable and irrelevant.

The moment her fingers twitched, John was propelling his body through the air and closing the space between the Hunter and himself.

Time seemed to slow down, and everything around John blurred until it was unrecognizable. All that mattered was the threat before him and the rush of blistering rage coursing through his veins. He _needed_ vengeance; _needed_ to feel their flesh between his teeth and warm blood pooling down his throat. These hunters walked around alive, while his family rotted above ground, scoured with maggots and skin gone black. They would _pay_.

The woman never noticed him before his teeth were sinking into the space between her shoulder and neck, crushing through weak, thin skin and fragile, human bones. Then, everything descended into chaos.

Sherlock's head whipped around in surprise at the terrific growl that emerged from John's throat as he clamped his teeth down until he heard that satisfying crunch that made his beast shiver with delight at the kill. It was but a small bit of relief for his savage wolf.

John locked eyes with Sherlock, tongue licking out to lap at the blood on his muzzle, and he watched as those pale eyes darkened hungrily. He stepped closer to the three wolves staring back at him with cautious admiration, though John never once tore his eyes from the only one that truly mattered.

The moment was broken when the area surrounding them was suddenly occupied by maybe a dozen hunters, all wielding heavy, state-of-the-art weaponry. It didn't take much, though, for the wolves to regroup. They came to stand together, each facing out against the enemy, leaving one another covered from behind.

The first hunter that made the mistake of lunging forward first was quickly tackled and impaled by Sherlock's sharp forepaws. His screams ripped across the clearing, loud and violent, and without further hesitation, his comrades converged.

Lestrade, like Sherlock, was a cunning fighter, though his style was more straight forward. While he was quick and agile, Lestrade almost always went straight for the jugular, killing efficiently without the dramatic theatrics that his leader was prone to.

On the other side of the clearing, Sherlock propelled his large body off the chest of a hunter attempting to throw a large net over the alpha. John could hear the crunch of his sternum at the impact, and the scent of the blood that spewed from the man's mouth. In the same breath, and with a terrifying speed John had never before encountered, Sherlock landed on a downed man and clamped his jaw punishingly over his throat and pulled, nearly detaching the head from the body.

John was covered in blood, invincible and unstoppable; feral. They were all operating on instincts now, and the beasts were in total control. John knew all he would see is red when it was time to close his eyes and sleep; he never forgot what it felt like to kill. After all the excitement died down and the effects of the adrenaline faded, there was nothing left, but to remember. John would remember every face; he always did.

Sally was next to him now, tan fur stained red with blood and bits of flesh. The black stripe that traveled down her back was dark and matted, concealing a wound that John could smell from where he stood.

There were only five hunters left, and they fought with the ferocity of men that would do anything to avoid a surely messy fate. Sherlock was resolutely taking no prisoners.

Together, Sally and John took down two. John feigned a lunge for the leg as a distraction while Sally crept up behind the enemy from behind. The hunter caught on at the last moment and turned with his gun raised, but stopped short as Sally bared her teeth in a hair-raising snarl, much closer than he'd expected her to be. John found himself turning away when the female wolf tackled the hunter to the ground. The resounding screams told him that it wasn't a merciful death.

The remaining two hunters grudgingly dropped their weapons, raising their hands slowly. The first one bent slowly to his knees, cupping his hands behind his shaved head  and glaring angrily at Sherlock's imposing form. The second man, a white haired middle aged man built like a lorry stayed standing, spitting at the ground before Lestrade contemptuously.

When he opened his mouth, the white haired hunter spoke with a thick scottish dialect. "I 'in't bowin' for no feckin' dogs, so feck off, you sorry sacks of shi-," John hadn't even seen him move, but there he was; quick, deadly, and most of all, a demonic hound. Sherlock's muzzle dripped crimson as he stood over the hunter, a trail of innards hanging from his snarling lips. The man was barely alive, staring at his own insides between the mouth of Cerberus. It would be the last image that hunter would see before passing through the pearly gates, of that, John was sure. Sherlock dropped it on his terror-stricken face and left him to die, stalking over to the next man, who was swearing loudly as his comrade bled out into the dirt.

"Fucking hell," the man panted, gagging at the sight of the other hunter's entrails. "Oh God, Christ almighty."

Sherlock shifted, smoothly, though the sound of rearranging bones was still unpleasant. He was naked and draped head to toe in red, as if he'd bathed in blood, which, John thought, wouldn't be too far off the mark. He looked like an avenging Angel, a demon, a paradox; beautiful, but deadly and monstrous.

He stepped forward, and Lestrade moved with him, a silent assassin, ready to kill if necessary. The pepper-furred male shifted as well, followed hesitantly by the two remaining werewolves.

A pale, long finger reached out and tipped the man's chin up gently, bringing his eyes up to meet Sherlock's icy, assessing gaze. The alpha leaned in, staring with mock pity into the hunter's eyes and whispered in a deceptively soft and intimate voice, "God, can't save you, now."

The man's eyes widened as Sherlock wrapped a tight grip around his neck and squeezed. Directly behind him, a sharp limb hung out from the tree, strong and sturdy, and before it could happen, John already knew what Sherlock planned to do.

He dropped his gaze, but he couldn't block out the hideous wails, nor the sound of skin pulling apart and cartilage ripping open. When he looked back, the hunter was convulsing, impaled on the tree limb, an abhorrent imitation of a scarecrow. John fought to hold back the bile he felt churning in his gut.

"A message," Sherlock spoke calmly, cold and detached, "for your friends."

Sherlock turned to the three wolves who stood solemnly behind him with varying expressions. Lestrade's countenance was carefully blank, but Sally appeared strangely pleased. "What do you want us to do with the rest," she asked, crossing her arms over her naked chest, as she appraised the impaled carcass.

Sherlock surveyed the area with a raised brow before turning pointedly to Lestrade and Sally. "Find something to string them up with. I want this to be the first thing the hunters see when they come looking. Then get rid of the Breadcrumbs. Take them as far away from the border as possible."

Lestrade crossed his arms, finally showing his bemused disapproval to the alpha. "Wouldn't that just provoke them, stringing them up like that?"

Sherlock smirked smugly at the older man, walking past Lestrade and towards John, who observed quietly, out of the way. "That's the point, Lestrade. Come with me, John."

Sherlock lead them back the way they'd returned from, walking until they almost reached the edge of the woods that opened up to his land.

He felt uneasy, following a man he'd just witnessed brutally murder two surrendering men, but John would be lying if he repudiated the fact that there was also an underlying giddiness. The space between them was charged with an undeniable current of electricity. Watching Sherlock protect his pack so viciously had left John more than a bit excited, and the wolf inside rumbled with pleasure.

Without warning, John found himself with two arms full of pale skin and a tongue in his mouth that was not his own. He could taste the metallic tang of blood explode in his mouth transferred from Sherlock's bloodied lips.

Sherlock shoved him back against a tree, using his body as an immovable wall against John's front. Unable to restrain himself, John reached up and tangled a hand in Sherlock's wet, tangled curls, pulling viciously. The taller man groaned against his lips, pushing his hips forward against John's, uncircumcised cock erect and needy.

John pulled back, biting back a moan at the sensation of Sherlock's body rubbing up obscenely against his own. Sherlock brought his hands to either side of John's face, directing his focus to him, and him, alone. " _You_ ," Sherlock hissed, pressing back in for another kiss, and pulling back with John's bottom lip between those sharp teeth, "you, _ah_ -"

Sherlock cut off with a groan and allowed his hands to travel down John's chest, along his sides and past his buttocks, where he stopped briefly to knead the skin, and over the back of his thighs, wrenching them up to wrap around his waist.

John moaned, hitting his head back against the bark of the trees behind him. The feeling of his cock against Sherlock's was heady and tortuous. God, he needed this, hadn't felt this since Bill, but he couldn't bear to think of his former lover now, when Sherlock was ready to have him against this tree, in these unfamiliar woods.

" _Fuck_ ," he cried, as Sherlock bent to lick a stripe over his carotid artery, and pull at the skin with cupid's bow lips. The hips between his legs pumped forward harshly, scraping John's back unpleasantly against the tree, but the pain balanced out the pleasure so deliciously. John wanted the punishment, needed it; all those people he killed, the exhilaration he felt in doing it; for his betrayal of Bill, finding pleasure with another man so soon after his death.

"Fuck, is an accurate analogy," Sherlock whispered hotly in his ear, before he turned John's head roughly and captured his lips in a bruising kiss, thrusting his hips more vigorously now against the smaller man's. Their cocks were lubricated with precome now, and Sherlock dropped a hand to their erections. He pushed back the foreskin and stroked once, twice, thrice with a heavy hand before letting go and grabbing John's hips with both, aligning their bodies and setting a punishing pace

With every thrust, John could feel the bark scraping at his skin painfully, and he relished it, taking his penance gratefully. John kept his legs tightly wound around Sherlock's waist, fingernails clawing into that wonderfully muscled back, feeling it shift and pull underneath his hands as Sherlock moved fluidly against him.

"Sh-Sherlock," he hissed as he pulled away. The man's lips were swollen a rouge red, and his pale eyes were nearly luminous with desire, bright and piercing as they peered into John's own unforgivingly. This was primal need, a fulfillment of something dark that Sherlock mirrored in his own eyes.

John was getting closer, and Sherlock's hips were slamming into him now, causing his breath to hitch in his throat with every rough motion. His hips were grinding sinfully, rotating in a lustful dance that left John breathless and panting.

The heat rose up inside of him until it reached an unbearable climax, tearing out of him and into the air. His throat was raw with the sounds he was making, but John didn't care. Sherlock came undone watching him lose it, and his hips gave a few more sharp thrusts before he came with a deep, guttural moan, his come mixing with John's against their stomachs and conjoined erections. 

Sherlock panted, dropping his head against John's shoulder. His breath pushed out in hot puffs of air against the smaller man's shoulder. John slumped back against the tree, though Sherlock's trembling arms still held his thighs captive.

The embrace was an intimate one and surprisingly comforting to John, though he knew it shouldn't be. He'd only ever felt that way with Bill.

Bill...

The man he loved; the man he was still meant to bury, and here he was, shagging another alpha against a tree.

Sherlock dragged his swollen lips over John's jaw and across his cheekbones, scenting him, waiting for John's reaction.

"John Watson," Sherlock drawled against his ear, voice slightly slurred with sated pleasure, "what _are_ you?"

\---

When Sherlock finally released him, John awkwardly scurried off in the direction of the den, with semen crusting uncomfortably on his stomach and in his navel. The entire walk back, he prayed that his progress to the nearest bathroom wouldn't be impeded by anyone, most of all Victor. The last thing he needed was to fight the man over Sherlock. It was just a one-off, a momentary lapse in inhibitions that he was already regretting, but the hunt had been so successful and Sherlock, so alluring.

John was hungry; his empty stomach screamed for sustenance, but he needed to get clean first. Thankfully, John made it to the bathroom without much trouble, and he immediately locked the door behind him. In the silence of the room, his breaths were loud and shaky. Slowly, John moved to stand before the mirror and did a thorough scan of his body. His neck was red where Sherlock's teeth had pulled his skin, over his carotid artery, and his stomach was a messed of dried semen and dirt.

Blond hair was flattened unattractively in the back where his head had been tilted against the tree. There was a dull ache where the bark caught and tugged a few stray strands of hair free. John knew he was avoiding the most important part: his back. He was afraid to see, afraid to acknowledge that he'd lost control of himself under Sherlock's spell, and allowed himself to be taken advantage of in a moment of vulnerability.

Reluctantly, he turned, eyes widening as the mess of his back was revealed. The top half was scratched and bleeding; his shoulder blades, where John held most of his weight during the heated encounter, was puffy and rubbed raw. A surge of unexplainable warmth shot down to his groin at the sight, so unexpected, it took his breath away.

How could he be so fucked up?

In the shower, John allowed himself to remember, finally. He slid down the wall and folded his legs up to his chest, hugging them close. The water was getting cold, but he couldn't find the energy to care. All John could think was Bill, Bill, Bill... What the fuck had he done?

The sobs were mercifully drowned out by the pelting water. He closed his eyes and Bill was there, shaking his head in disappointment, and then he was walking away from John; then he was looking up at him with lifeless brown eyes.

\---

When John finally sat down to eat, he realized he didn't have much of an appetite after all. Now that the effects of the fight were cleared away, he thought of nothing but the brutality of their killing.

They had all enjoyed it, even Lestrade who put up a good front of disapproving, but John saw the glee in his eyes as the hunters were torn down one-by-one. Even John enjoyed it. For wolves, the thrill of capturing and killing the prey was innate. They had all given over to their primal sides completely.

Sherlock and Sally didn't look the least bit put out by it; if anything they acted as if it hadn't bothered them at all, but John knew there was rage crawling just beneath their skin. The look Lestrade exchanged with him over the dining room table alerted him that he noticed it too. The scent of satisfaction was heavy in the air, but there was also weariness and fear.

None of them knew how many hunters were to come, or if there would be too many to fight off. There was the realization that these could be their last peaceful meals for a long while. The pack had to decide whether they would fight or flee.

The wolves that were left behind sat safely in the lounge room, Anderson obviously relieved he hadn't been picked to go. Coward.

Victor hadn't uttered a word since their return, but the way his eyes flickered suspiciously between John and Sherlock was as audible as anything he could have said aloud. Any werewolf with a working nose could smell them kilometers away, reeking of one another's scent. When Lestrade returned to the den, he had no qualms about cornering John in the hall and launching a full scale interrogation.

John hadn't given him much, but Lestrade was no fool. He was aware that something happened between John and the pack leader, of a sexual nature.

"Just be careful," Lestrade had warned him in a low, serious tone. "I can see Sherlock taking an interest in you, but it isn't him you should be worried about."

The caution was cryptic and vague, but Lestrade didn't elaborate, and John didn't push, though he wondered if Lestrade knew of Victor's threat from earlier in the day. If he didn't, Molly would surely inform him.

The rest of the day was quiet and peaceful. John wondered into the lounge room, which seemed to be the default gathering place, this time, only Molly, Lestrade and Sherlock occupied it.

Molly was seated on an old brown settee poring over a book while Lestrade, snuggled up next to her, reading over a delicate shoulder, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her arm possessively. It was a very domestic moment, such an ordinary display in a place that was anything but. It was like a soothing balm to the weight on John's chest.

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, eyes closed and completely cut off from the world around him. Usually the man was restless and a constant spot of energy in the room, but now he was lethargic and lackadaisical. The fight seemed to have calmed the frustration John could just see snowballing in the man, growing larger and larger the more time they spent squatting in the old cabin like sitting ducks, waiting for the hunters to make the first move.

Sherlock's face was clear of lines, smooth and pale like porcelain, and John's fingers twitched with the urge to touch again.

"All right, John?" Lestrade was staring intently at him now, concern etched over his lined features as he regarded the younger man. Molly looked up as well, soft brown eyes curious and worried.

John smiled and sat in a cushioned red chair facing both the couch Sherlock lay on and the settee, back to the covered windows. "I'm fine," he reassured them, wincing as he relaxed back into the chair. His wounds were healing now, but the skin was pulled tight and uncomfortable. "I reckon I was just a little unprepared today."

Lestrade returned the smile, kindly, though his eyes had grown darker at the mention of the fight with the hunters. "We all were, John. Hell, if you hadn't noticed the woman, one of us wouldn't be sitting here. That was a brilliant thing you did back there."

John waved away the praise with a hand, feeling his cheeks warm with a blush. "It was nothing," he murmured quietly.

"Self-deprecation," Sherlock's voice piped up from the couch, "doesn't suit you, John."

Of course Sherlock would be listening. John glanced over to see the man had moved, and his hands were now steepled under his chin, though his eyes remained closed. His skin was so pale against the dark leather, a wonderful contrast that highlighted Sherlock's supernatural features.

As if sensing his stare, Sherlock opened his eyes, pinning John with a perfervid gaze that sent his stomach plummeting disastrously. "It's not- I'm not...," John allowed his voice to trail off, feeling pathetically inadequate with Sherlock sitting there staring at him like he was a puzzle meant to be solved.

John looked away, rubbing a hand over his mouth, unable to forget the sensation of plump lips pushed against his own, consuming him, filling John with a desire above even that of anything he'd ever felt with Bill. The thought distressed him; the horrible realization that John was comparing Sherlock to his dead mate.

Seeing the way that Sherlock was regarding him, with an intensely interested gleam, he remembered Lestrade's words of warning to him. It was clear who the man had been referring to. Victor obviously felt he had a claim on the alpha, but from the way Sherlock was watching John, it wasn't a mutual sentiment.

John couldn't deny that he was thoroughly fascinated with Sherlock, but it couldn't possibly work out in the end, when it would be time for John to depart. He couldn't allow himself to become attached.

A voice in the back of his mind, tiny and cold, whispered, _'but we both know it's already happened'_ , and John couldn't bring himself to refute it.


	7. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to a decision that leaves the pack, and John, unsure how to proceed.

A net of tension crackled overhead like storm clouds, hovering ominously over the lounge room and its inhabitants. There was an underlying sense of dread, and every wolf was on edge after the attack in the woods.

For the last hour, John observed Sherlock ignoring everyone else, in lieu of lying supine on the couch with his eyes closed. His breaths were deep and even, but that was the only indication that he wasn't just an unoccupied vessel. John wondered where the leader's mind was, or if he was thinking of their impromptu tryst in the woods, that morning. John was incapable of conjuring up any other image, than a blood-soaked, feral man rutting against him. It was driving him to madness.

The wolves were high-strung, and ready to fight again, but first, they needed to discuss the elephant in the room.

The ambush.

Sherlock was loathe to admit that it had been a rather perilous oversight on his part, and the pack had been equally perplexed that their alpha hadn't smelled the trap from afar.

Now that they saw it for what it was, John was aware that there was more at play than what was immediately obvious.

Victor spoke in hushed tones with Lestrade, no doubt about the day's events, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he listened to a retelling, rife with omissions.

John shared a fleeting look with Sally, who regarded him with moderately less contempt than before the fight, though she still kept herself surrounded by an air of distrust and reservation.

Abruptly, Sherlock stood, moving to pace in the middle of the room with his hands clasped before his lips. The others quieted to watch him, waiting for their alpha's reassurance of their safety. John didn't envy Sherlock his responsibility. There was no possible way that he could assure them that they were safe. If Sherlock was stupid enough to think it was smart to stay, the pack would be dead within days. The hunters were close, very close, and there at the cabin, they were just sitting ducks.

Finally, Sherlock pivoted to face the room, startlingly alert for a man who spent the afternoon stretched out on the couch like a corpse on a cold slab.

"As you all know by now, during our inspection of the southern border line, we were ambushed by a group of hunters." Sherlock paused momentarily, allowing the statement to settle in with his captive audience. Although everyone was aware of what happened, hearing him recount it aloud was oppressive, and the silence that followed, sinister.

Sherlock's eyes landed on him with an intense scrutiny, and John knew that whatever the alpha was about to say, he wouldn't like it at all. "I've reason to believe, John, that you may have been intentionally left alive and herded here."

John stopped breathing, along with the others in the room, until all of Sherlock's words became a jumble of slurred syllables he could no longer comprehend. The only thing he could get his eyes to focus on, was the bobbing of Sherlock's Adam's apple as he continued to speak.

"Werewolves are specifically attuned to others of their kind, whether nearby, or otherwise. As many of us are aware, we are of a pack mentality. John, obviously in distress, instinctively sought the presence of other werewolves nearby, and the hunters were counting on his inherent ability to track the nearest pack."

John swallowed twice, before he could bring himself to speak, blinking rapidly. He hadn't even been aware that he'd been attuned to Sherlock's pack. John could only remember his scattered thoughts at the time, the need to get to a safe place. The hunters stayed on his tail the entire time, never too far off, but he'd thought they were trying to kill him, when in reality, John only succeeded in doing their dirty work for them. "Meaning, I-- meaning I lead them here."

Sherlock's face was grim, and his pale eyes, a twin pair of hard, cold pearls. "Unintentionally, yes. However, they do not know of our specific location, yet, and we won't be staying long enough for them to find out."

Anderson piped up in bitter inquiry, asking the question that was surely plaguing everyone's thoughts. "And just where are we to go, now?"

Sherlock glared heavenward, and a long-suffering sigh escaped his throat in prickly resignation. "I've called in a favor from Mycroft."

At this, a collective groan travelled throughout the pack, excluding a bemused John and a greatly vexed Sherlock. Whoever this Mycroft fellow was, the news of his help was not received with any great deal of pleasure.

John exhaled tremulously, the old, childish urge to wring his hand in his lap, unbearably irresistible. He could almost feel their thoughts, all of them blaming John for bringing this sordid mess down upon their backs. It was a heavy burden to bear, but John was determined not to let them see how much the pack's judgment affected him.

"And what about him," Anderson asked, jerking his head in John's direction with a surly fold of his arms.

The question conjured up a few narrow-eyed, furtive glances his way, and across the room, he could see Lestrade's back straighten in anticipation of Sherlock's decision.

Did he really want to stay with this pack, and be a source of contention between them? What benefit could his presence possibly afford them? John found himself constantly on guard, and his little episode with Victor had convinced him that this was not his place. Though Sherlock may be fascinated with John, as well as the same could be said in his regard of the alpha, any sort of dalliance with the man would be risqué, at best.

Sherlock's didn't deliberate for long, though his eyes, when they met John's, were bottomless. Under that gaze, his insides lit up like smouldering coals, reminding John of the unresolved tension between them. He didn't know if Sherlock would verbally acknowledge what happened in the woods, but those eyes surely didn't shy away from the truth.

"John will be coming along. He has proven himself to be a valuable asset to us."

Anderson squawked indignantly, but the harsh glare dealt by Sherlock was enough to silence him immediately.

"I wouldn't protest too soon, if I were you, Anderson, except, I would never lower myself to such brainless idiocy. Whilst you were here, cowering on Mrs. Hudson's tit -

"Sherlock," Lestrade exclaimed in admonishment, appearing more than embarrassed for Anderson, though beside him, Molly was suppressing her laughter.

"- John effectively intercepted an ambush, quite expediently, I might add. Had it not been for his observations, I assure you, you'd be rodent fare."

Victor, who'd kept silent up until that point, scoffed with a baleful grimace, though he looked at no one in particular. John's skin prickled with the surge of animosity coming from the man. "It's 'John', now, is it?" Victor stood, coming toe-to-toe with Sherlock, and not at all threatened by the terrifying glower the alpha was regarding him with. "How do we know he didn't set the whole ruddy thing up?"

Behind him, Sally growled impatiently, her large, brown eyes dark and stormy as she spoke, glaring at Victor until he was forced to stand down. "That's rubbish, and you know it, Victor. The man couldn't wank without one of us being there to see it."

"We'd rather not, thank you," Anderson intoned, sulking like a child who'd just had his lolly taken away.

Lestrade sighed loudly from where he stood, flanking Sherlock like an SIS agent, on the verge of baring his teeth. "That's enough out of the lot of you. Sherlock says John stays, and that's what's going to happen, understood?

The dissonance between the pack was nearly tangible, like currents of electricity floating throughout the room. A tendril of shame was slowly making itself at home in John's conscience. This disruption within the house was of his doing; John was singlehandedly destroying Sherlock's pack.

Clearing his throat, John stood, clasping sweaty hands behind his back, until they were out of view. "I can't go with you."

The silence, following his statement, was filled with dread and anticipation. All eyes were volleying between John and Sherlock, unsure what to make of his refusal to their alpha. John, for his part, held steady, involuntarily allowing his body to fall into parade rest, a natural and comforting stance for him in potentially hostile situations.

"Now would be a good time to shut up, John," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. Long, slender hands were lifted to his temples, rubbing slow, soothing circles into the skin, but the deep creases on his forehead and the quiet fury in Sherlock's voice betrayed his thoughts on the matter. "You and I know well enough you wouldn't survive the night."

The accuracy of Sherlock's statement was a blow to his gut. There was no way he could possibly survive an attack without a pack to fight beside him. Had John been in the woods alone, he'd be some hunter's trophy kill. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and it went down just as sourly as he expected.

"My pack mates," he started, swallowing with difficulty; it felt like grinding rocks together, "I need to bury them. I--," John's eyes were prickling with unshed tears, but he refused to mourn before these people, wasn't going to let them see his weakness.

All of his efforts to repress his emotion proved fruitless, however, because Sherlock was watching him with that acute awareness that left him feeling excoriated. John dropped his eyes, pursing his lips to steel himself, and began again. "I need to give them a proper send off. I never did get the chance."

There was not even a whisper of movement, but their introspections were just as loud as spoken words. John was a weak link in the chain, he'd get them all killed; let him go, Sherlock, he's not worth the risk. John was a liability.

He couldn't think about it; the body of his kin as victims of the wild, their bodies being picked apart by scavengers. People he once loved, now just rotting cadavers; comrades he'd fought and laughed with, once flush with life.

John could feel his hand trembling under his duress. How did they see him, now? A shaking, mess of a creature; destroyed and mentally fragile, a burden.

A small, dainty hand came to surround his own, squeezing, until the trembling abated. It was Molly, with her large, doe eyes, a glimpse of a haunted past reflecting back at him. "It's okay, John," she whispered softly, though he was sure the rest were listening. "It's okay to be sad."

Once again, Molly had shown him a kindness John hadn't known he'd been starved for. For a moment, John could forget that he was in a room of angry wolves, all fighting over his place in their world; he was struggling to figure out where he fit anymore.

"You do realize there is a high probability the hunters are expecting you to return," Sherlock spoke suddenly, though, his voice was pensive, and lacked its usual caustic edge. "They're intelligent enough to understand that there's a chance your presence here wouldn't be accepted."

John nodded, unable to do much more than silently agree. It was a risk he was willing to take. He would never forgive himself if he didn't go back, even if there was nothing to bury, but bones.

Sherlock nodded once, and then pivoted to stand before the fireplace, giving the room and its inhabitants his back. "Good, now that I've properly forewarned you, and you still endeavour to continue your foolhardy mission, I might as well accompany you."

Around the room, a mix of protests sprouted up in loud exclamations.

"Sherlock, you can't-"

"-absolutely psycho!"

"Sherlock..."

"Not alone, you're not."

"-gonna get yourselves killed!"

John stood and made his way to Sherlock, cautiously, until he was looking up into verdigris irises, watching Sherlock watch him. "You don't have to do this, Sherlock. Your pack needs you; they need their leader."

The emotions behind those eyes were constantly shifting, despite Sherlock's automaton appearance. John didn't squirm beneath that scrutinizing gaze, merely stared back, beseeching with his eyes, for Sherlock to change his mind. John didn't want to be responsible for this death. He already had too much blood on his hands; he was drowning in it.

"Lestrade," Sherlock snapped brusquely, keeping his gaze trained on John as he snapped out his orders. "You will get the pack safely to Mycroft's estate in Sussex. John and I will meet you there within the next week." Sherlock broke the stare, turning to his second-in-command. "If we fail to arrive by Thursday next, notify Mycroft. He will know what to do."

Why was Sherlock helping him; the man who had shown the most aggression towards his presence? What was Sherlock expecting to get out of accompanying John on a potentially suicidal mission? In the short time John had known Sherlock, he didn't take him to be a particularly altruistic man.

Victor must have been thinking along the same lines, because he stepped forward, his unlined features pulled taught with tension. "Sherlock, I-- we need you here. If something were to happen to you, what do you suppose we're to do?"

This was Victor pleading to his lover, and for a moment, John could see Sherlock's eyes soften, before the cold wash of steel shuttered them once again. "Then I trust you are all intelligent enough to elect a capable leader, should I meet my demise."

It was a cold statement, one that even John felt the sting of, and Victor stepped away, as if scalded. What could accurately describe the pain of watching a loved one leave, with no knowledge as to whether you will ever see them again? It was the slowest of tortures; always dwelling on your last minutes with that person, and whether you said everything you needed to say before they were gone.

Victor may have been idiotic and proprietary, but John wouldn't wish that pain on anyone.

Although the other wolves had gathered to speak amongst themselves, Victor and Sherlock held a silent conversation in the the center of the room. It was intimate, and John looked away.

Guilt, his old, familiar friend, was cresting inside his chest until it threatened to suffocate him.

\---

The night air was sticky against his skin, warm and humid after an evening shower. The only source of light in the countryside originated from the moon, and the vast spread of stars illuminating the sky, like fairy lights.

The atmosphere in the house had dropped to sub-zero after Sherlock's final announcement. No one wanted to believe Sherlock may never make it to the estate in Sussex. Lestrade, who'd been appointed leader in Sherlock's stead, hadn't been happy with the news, and only after a lengthy, private discussion in the hall, did the older man reluctantly accept his temporary responsibility.

Standing further out in the open field, John could see two silhouettes, accompanied by the tangerine glow of burning cigarettes.

It was Sherlock and Lestrade.

The latter waved him over readily enough, while Sherlock's eyes scoured the tree line, vigilantly. He doesn't spare John a glance when he comes to stand beside Lestrade, though John can feel Sherlock's attention just as acutely as he would if the man were pinning him with his penetrative stare.

"John," Lestrade nods, balancing the white stick precariously between his middle and forefinger. Between the encounter with the hunters and Sherlock's spontaneous declaration, Lestrade appears to have aged a decade. His voice is rough and quiet, belying his dark reflections, and John could see the crow's feet pulling at the edges of Lestrade's eyes as he squints out into the darkness. "All right?"

John nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking anywhere but at Sherlock, who is, doubtless, waiting for his response. "I'm fine. Bit knackered, but nothing a quick kip won't clear out."

As soon as Lestrade inhaled to respond, Sherlock spun in his halo of smoke, and cut in with a sharp, "Lestrade, I'd like a moment alone with John."

The words sunk like lead in John's stomach, not sure if he was ready to confront Sherlock, just yet, on his decision.

Lestrade acquiesced without argument, and retired back to the cabin, putting out his cigarette as he went. John watched his retreating back, until the he'd heard the front door open and shut quietly. When he turned, Sherlock was staring back with narrowed eyes.

John narrowed his own right back, wondering what the hell the bastard was thinking. It was dark, but Sherlock stood out like a spectre in the night, all pale skin and incandescent eyes.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence, his deep, melodious voice seeming too loud in the quietude of the countryside. "Your pleas will be wasted on me. I'm not changing my mind."

John tore his eyes away, unable to hold Sherlock's stare for long. It was like looking into a well; no matter how hard you would squint, you could never quite see to the bottom. Those eyes were deep and depthless, and the potential to fall in was ridiculously imaginable.

"And what do you get from all this, if you come with me? What's your end game?" John could hear his own displeasure, weaving bitterly through his words, and leaving his lips with a harsh edge he hadn't intended. "Don't tell me you're suicidal."

Sherlock chuckled, though it had a hollow quality, and there wasn't a trace of humour in the man's eyes. "If I'd wanted to die, it wouldn't take the work of a clever mind to do so. A venture into the woods would do."

John could see that Sherlock was avoiding the question, but this was one time John needed answers. He simply waited, watching as Sherlock took a deep drag on the last of his cigarette, before crushing it underfoot.

A tumble of lazy, grey clouds emerged from Sherlock's lips in a scintillating display. Between the tendrils of smoke, his opalescent gaze never wavered from John's, brazenly revealing his desire. "And if I told you to leave it?"

"Well," John returned, proceeding with caution, "I'd say you'll be sorely disappointed."

Sherlock smiled and stepped closer, a few paces away, now, but near enough for John to reach out and touch. He didn't.

"Of course," he murmured, a small, secretive smile playing across Sherlock's lips, "what else could I expect from you, John? You, who surprises me at every turn."

John swallowed, choosing not to acknowledge Sherlock's statement. For all John knew, the man was being glib. "You're digressing."

"I assure you, it has everything to do with you, John," Sherlock whispered, catching his eyes like a Venus flytrap, and refusing to release John now that he'd been caught. "Oh, don't get me wrong. There are, of course, other reasons I wish to accompany you. The hunters, while skilled trackers, can also be foolish and clumsy in their pursuit of our kind. The amount of information I can gain from the scene would be beneficial to my ongoing research of their hierarchy."

"If we can succeed in cutting the head off the snake, we could dismantle this branch." Sherlock's speech had grown more emphatic as he nattered on excitedly. John decidedly did not miss the plurality of his words, the emphasis on the we.

"Sherlock, we don't know how many hunter are in this branch, or if there's just the one that's tracking us," John rationalized, trying to talk some sense into the foolish man, but Sherlock's eyes gleamed darkly under the moonlight. He was far past convincing otherwise.

Sherlock closed the distance between them, placing one long-fingered hand on John's hipbone, a light touch that was worth a thousand words. He reeked of tobacco, but underneath it, Sherlock's scent was heady and arousing. "You don't know much about me, so I'll forgive your ignorance on this matter, but I want to make certain that you understand, John."

Sherlock paused, raising his other hand to splay on the small of John's back proprietarily. His voice betrayed his actions, cold and hard like marble, and sharper than any two-edged sword. "The safety of my pack is all that matters, everything, everyone else is irrelevant; disposable. I don't intend to simply trace these hunters. I intend to wipe them out of existence. I want you there with me when it happens."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're on about, Sherlock. Believe me, nothing would make me happier than bringing them down, but what difference would my being there make?"

"Because you're the piece this puzzle has been missing, John. You're everything this war needs! A _soldier_ ; loyal, steadfast, a fighter, and they lead you right to us... to _me_. This morning, you had every opportunity to flee, yet you put yourself in harm's way to warn us."

The weight of Sherlock's words were heavy on John's shoulders, and the man was so close, such a large presence full of rage, anger, and Sherlock's hands on his body was overwhelming. What was he trying to tell John? Yes, it was true, the thought of running hadn't even crossed his mind. It had been an instinctive reaction to stay and fight alongside the other wolves, even though he hadn't earned their trust, and nor they, John's. What did that say about him? The action seemed to have spoken volumes to Sherlock.

Sherlock was watching him struggle to take it all in, pleading with him to understand, but there was so much John knew he wasn't saying. "You still don't understand," Sherlock stated, with a tinge of frustration. "No matter, you will soon enough."

John was confused, and dazed by Sherlock's proximity and passionate ranting. What was he to say to it all?

Sherlock didn't give him much chance to decipher his cryptic revelations, before he leaned in, catching John's lips in a soft caress. Sherlock's hands teased the skin just beneath his shirt, skirting the edge of John's trousers with the tips of his slender fingers.

For lack of any place else to rest his hands, John brought them up to weave into the soft crown of curls, pulling Sherlock down, closer to him.

The point of Sherlock's tongue traced the line of John's lips, asking for entrance, sliding in to move against John's own. It was galvanizing and electrifying, having such a powerful creature in his grasp, allowing himself to be taken apart so thoroughly.

Sherlock's hands were moving up his stomach now, mapping the skin, filing away bits and pieces of John. It was a testament of his will that his knees didn't give out under that sure touch. Sherlock's body was stuck to him like glue, and John could feel a hardness pressing back against his belly.

The kiss was growing frantic, and John realized his hands were gripping Sherlock's hair in a tight fist, though the alpha didn't seem put off by it. His tongue fought valiantly with John's in a battle of wills, dominating with contemptuous ease as Sherlock's devious hands travelled down to grasp his arse in a strong grip. The hard line of Sherlock's body was a siren call; the urge to touch and take was nigh impossible.

John broke the kiss at the bold touch, breathing heavily into Sherlock's mouth, who was gazing into his eyes with avid longing. It was enticing, and John found himself under Sherlock's spell, as he had been in the woods that morning.

Everything inside him quivered under the strength of Sherlock's look, burrowing into John's body like a parasite. It was startling and exciting, all the same.

"You have no idea what power you possess, John Watson," Sherlock panted against his cheek, just as breathless, if not more so. "People look at you, and mistake you for ordinary, but they don't truly see."

' _No_ ,' John mused, ' _no, they don't. Then again, neither do I_.'

Before John could put words to his thoughts, Sherlock abruptly released him, his face withdrawn and pale as he turned away without so much as a parting glance, perhaps, fearing that he might have said too much.

Abandoned without explanation, John watched his hasty retreat with somber eyes. In the low light of the moon, John realized it might be his last night of peace. He stayed outside until the shadows grew long, before the call of sleep pulled him away.


	8. Humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes something about Sherlock's past, and the journey begins.

No one slept well that night, and in the morning, not a bright-eyed Were remained. The prospect of imminent doom weighed heavily on everyone's mind.

John noted that Sherlock hadn't returned to his room that night, nor had he heard the heavy-footed steps of Lestrade ambling up the corridor, so he assumed they were keeping watch.

John slept fitfully, drifting in and out of slumber, and each time he closed his eyes, the same nightmares haunted him. The posthumous voices of his former packmates whispered the same dark warnings.

_Run. Run. Run._

John couldn't discern whether they were cautioning him away from the Hunters or Sherlock.

 

\---

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair; a table full of weary wolves ready to pack up and carry on before the inevitable invasion. The only sound to fill the silence was the scrape of cutlery over porcelain, and Sherlock's furious tapping as he glared at his mobile screen.

Mrs. Hudson wisely kept silent, though the disapproving lift of an eyebrow could not be withheld as she watched the alpha forego all table manners in lieu of scowling at whatever held his attention. Every line of the Alpha's body was etched with tension, and his anger was near palpable.

When Mrs. Hudson made the mistake of admonishing Sherlock for his full plate as she came to clear the table, Sherlock was quick to snap back with an apoplectic rebuke. “Oh, do shut up, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock snarled, followed by Lestrade's angry, “Sherlock!”. “I don't have time for your useless nannying, while I'm _bargaining_ with my fat arse brother for safe passage to Sussex on behalf of the pack. The _least_ you all could do is afford me some silence!” The words were hissed and recalcitrant, more like the Sherlock John remembered meeting on the first night. 

Mrs. Husdon harrumphed and cleared Sherlock's plate with a disapproving glare, while Sherlock continued to completely disregard everyone at the table. John could feel the storm brewing, the way the wolves began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, ill at ease and eager to get away from Sherlock in his irritable state. 

John thought there must be something he could do to diffuse the situation before it escalated any further. Soon or later, a fight would break out like this, when they were all so agitated and on edge. It was important that they stuck together when an attack from the hunters was liable to take place at any time. It wasn't wise to be so divided. 

John cleared his throat uncomfortably, and immediately all eyes fell on him with a disconcerting heaviness. It was now or never, he guessed.

John turned to Lestrade, avoiding Sherlock altogether, though he could feel that penetrating stare fall on him for the first time that day, intense. “Maybe we could take another run of the perimeter, see if there may have been any other breaches?” It was hesitant, but it was something other than the daunting silence of earlier. John didn't miss the quiet exhalations of relief as Lestrade turned to Sherlock for an assent. Sherlock didn't look way from John as he nodded, and John didn't dare break the connection, curious to know what the Alpha was thinking.

“That's set then,” Lestrade stated, standing up from his seat to the left of Sherlock, who sat at the head of the table. John reluctantly tore his eyes away and down to the table as he stood. “We'll all go; leave Sherlock to his business.”

The rest stood up to file out of the room, though John could see Victor glance worriedly at the Alpha, who was studiously ignoring them now. John remembered his recent intimacy with Sherlock and pretended not to feel the wash of guilt.

 

\---

 

Once outside, John could properly feel the rage of the other wolves, the violent tremble in their bodies and the ragged snarls as they transformed. He felt it too, though the fear was the most paralyzing. John couldn't help but think of his pack, now rotting above ground, and before, when they smiled so carelessly, unknowing that death was knocking on their door.

John didn't want that for Sherlock's pack, or Sherlock. He knew what it was like to lose everything, and no one deserved that. 

“John,” Lestrade called out to him, cutting off his reverie. Always the last to change, the man stood with his hands on his hips, regarding John with weary, concerned eyes. “You coming?”

John nodded, pulling his shirt over his head as Lestrade turned and paced towards the treeline, doing the same. The fine hairs on his neck prickled peculiarly with the sensation of being watched, and when he turned, sure enough, Sherlock was at the door, watching him. 

Even from John's position at the midway point between the house and the woods, Sherlock's stare was just as strong, as if the Alpha were stood right in front of him. Sherlock made no move to join him, and John didn't offer, but the message was clear as day.

_Be careful._

John nodded and shucked the rest of his clothes, inviting the familiar tremors of the change to take his body captive, and like the day before, he was ripping through thick brush and heavy foliage to catch up with the pack.

 

\---

 

When the pack returned to the house, it was nearing midday, and apparently, they had company. There was a sleek back vehicle parked on the gravel, sorely out of place in front of the old cabin, and it reeked of luxury.

“Oh great,” Sally griped, sauntering up to the door, pulling on her clothes as she went, “just who we needed to see.”

The others seemed just as perturbed at the unexpected arrival, and agreed with Sally quietly as they followed in her wake. John exchanged a wary look with Lestrade, though the man offered up no explanation as to who their visitor was, merely gestured for John to go on through the door. Whoever it was, his presence didn't seem like a welcome one, and John wasn't sure if he would be happy to meet this new individual. 

As John got closer to the lounge room, he could hear Sherlock's baritone lashing out angrily, with scathing insults. The other voice, a man, spoke in a softer, though rigid, patronizing dialect.

“As you well know, Sherlock, I do have a schedule to adhere to. I'm only here, because you stated that you required assistance in a matter that was of dire importance. Now please, you can either continue with your childish grousing, or we can get straight to the matter at hand. Quickly, now.” The patient, soft tone belied the harsh, cold words.

John stepped past the threshold, just as Sherlock huffed and dropped into his chair, pulling his legs up to his chest and steepling his long fingers together. The other man in the room was tall and dressed elegantly in a three-piece suit, Single Albert chain and all. Instantly, the man's eyes found John with the same uncanny intensity as Sherlock's; even their scent seemed nearly identical, though the smell of expensive cologne did a good job of masking the stranger's natural pheromones.

The man turned fully to John, singling him out in the room full of people, sharp, eagle-like nose perched high in the air. “Taking in strays, are we, brother?”

_'Brother..._ of course _.'_

“I don't see where that is any concern of yours, _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock hissed, shooting out of his chair. “Now, back to why you're here. We seem to have attracted the attention of the hunters, and we need a place to lie low for a while. I was thinking your estate in Sussex.”

Mycroft whipped around to face his – no doubt, younger – brother, a hint of surprise on his face, the first real expression to crack through his perfectly impassive facade. “However did you allow that to happen?”

“ _He_ didn't,” Anderson cut in, earning a shrewd scowl from Sherlock, “It was him! He brought them here!” A long, crooked finger singled John out where he stood, flanked by Lestrade and Molly. Victor only stared blankly from his spot, leaning against the wall closest to Sherlock.

Sally rolled her eyes and slapped Anderson on the chest with the back of her hand. Anderson jumped, wounded, and rubbed the affected area with a grumble. “I'm just telling him the truth. We've been careful; this isn't our doing!”

Mycroft had turned to stare at John again, curious and speculative as his eyes scanned John in that oddly familiar way, as if the man were dissecting his every thought with uncomfortable precision. “Strange that you should show up and this location be compromised.”

Sherlock broke in, before Mycroft could go any further, surprisingly coming to stand between John and the man that suddenly seemed more dangerous than he looked. “I assure you, if John was a threat to this pack, he would be dead, but considering it's impossible for you to keep your nose out of everything, you should be aware of the fact that John intercepted an ambush that surely would have seen us all slaughtered by nightfall.”

“Then pray tell, brother mine, how it is that you've been found,” Mycroft sniffed, flicking his eyes back to Sherlock, using the tip of his brolly to tap once, firmly, against the wooden floor.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration, pacing across the lounge room with long, crisp steps, while he gesticulated wildly with his hands. “John's pack was ambushed by the hunters, and in turn, he was left alive in order to lead them to the next closest pack. Using his biological imperative, they followed, or rather, herded him to my territory, though we can't be sure if they've discovered our exact coordinates.”

John crossed his arms over his chest, shielding himself from Mycroft's gaze as the man stared at him with perplexity. John held his tongue from issuing the challenge that burned at the back of his throat. There was something shark-like and distinctly more sinister about the way the man appeared to look right through him. John didn't like it, but he was in no way prepared to fight anyone, least of all, a man who may just be their saving grace.

“Mycroft, I need a safe place for my pack. I understand that I will be in your debt,” Sherlock stopped pacing, and turned to his brother, a look of sincerity that caused every eyebrow in the room to lift in astonishment, Mycroft, even, who John imagined hadn't seen something like it before, or not in a long time, at least.

Mycroft cast John a long, searching look, before turning to Sherlock and nodding, his hands tightening over the handle of his brolly until his knuckles bleached white. “And what of you, brother, it seems you have a different agenda in mind.”

“Yes, I will accompany John back to his territory. There, I may find the necessary data that will give me information as to the source of these attacks.”

“Well we know who's behind this, Sherlock, there's no need to recklessly put yourself in harm's way for information we already have,” Mycroft reasoned, the crack in his composure only growing more strained the more that he learned of the situation.

Sherlock scowled and turned away, forbidding. “Mycroft, you know as well as I, that there is someone else pulling the strings. But oh, they are _clever_ , to use our own instincts against us.” Sherlock paused, bringing up a thumb to stroke idly against his lower lips, the other resting on his hip as looked off into the distance, distractedly. “If my pack were to fall, whose do you think will be next, dear brother?”

At this, Sherlock smirked darkly, an eerie gleam in his eyes as he turned to regard Mycroft. He knew he'd won by the way Mycroft's back stiffened.

Abruptly, Sherlock swept back to the chair, assuming his hawk-like perch in his seat, long, lean legs pulled up to his chin. “The pack and Mrs. Hudson will be leaving with you. Lestrade will assume the role as Alpha in my stead, until I arrive. Any business that needs to be discussed can be taken up with him until that time.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement, accepting a polite nod from Lestrade, as well as returning one, before he sauntered across the room to sit cross-legged on the chair across from his brother.

“Alright,” Lestrade left the room, gesturing for the others to follow, to pack, John assumed, leaving him alone to watch the brothers duel.

Mycroft sighed heavily, “At least take one of my cars if you persist on going through with this foolish endeavour.”

Though John was aware that Mycroft didn't know the extent of their journey, he still felt the hot boil of anger at the man's words. There was nothing foolish or reckless about wanting to bury the dead. It was certainly nothing to be taken lightly where wolves were concerned, and gratefully, Sherlock understood that. John wasn't so sure that Mycroft would.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I prefer to run, thanks. As ever, you rely too much on human creations, when they make new gadgets every day to rid the world of us.”

Mycroft said nothing, though his eyes fell pointedly to Sherlock's phone.

“A necessary evil,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Sometimes, Sherlock,” Mycroft began quietly, something in his tone, softer, as he stared at his brother, and John suddenly had the feeling that he was intruding on something sacred, “it's important to blend. Not all humans are like the ones you've met. They are not all set on eradicating us.”

“Try telling that to John, here, or Lestrade, and the countless others who have suffered, for the simple fact that they are different. Humans, they are all disgusting,with their petty feuds and tiny, little brains.” There was nothing, but contempt in Sherlock's voice, a hatred he wasn't even attempting to veil. “They can't deal with the fact that they are no longer at the top the food chain, they would rather kill us off than face competition, so tell me, _brother_ , what am I to gain from consorting with those animals?”

John had never gotten close to humans before, had been taught since he was a pup that they weren't to be trusted, but even then, John had never seen such hatred for them before. Sherlock's snarl as he called them 'animals', the distinctly far away look he adopted when Mycroft referred to past run-ins with humans. There was obviously a history there, something ominous, that may have happened to Sherlock. Would John ever know? Would Sherlock ever tell him?

Mycroft appeared haunted by these thing, as well. There was an endless comprehension in Mycroft's gaze, one John recognized as a man who'd seen too much in his life. “Not everything is a war, Sherlock, one day, you may have to put aside your pride and -”

“Leave it, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, a vehement growl that made John's stomach clench up in horror. There were so many secrets in this house, between these people.

Before Mycroft could speak, the pack was entering the room again, this time, carrying loaded backpacks. Everyone traveled lightly, apparently.

“We're ready,” Lestrade announced, assuming his position at the forefront of the pack, flanked by a nervous Molly, and Victor, who seemed quieter than usual. His face was carefully impassive, though John could see the hard set of Victor's jaw.

Mycroft smiled tightly in no general direction, and stood, wiping invisible bits of lint from his waistcoat. “We had better be on our way, then. I was expecting something of a change of location, so I called a few cars round before I arrived.”

Sherlock nodded and stood, turning to face the pack, an inscrutable mask set firmly in place as they looked upon him with sombre gazes.

“When you're ready,” Mycroft said to Lestrade, before walking towards the entrance to the hall, where John leaned against the opening. “John, is it?”

John stood up straighter, under the man's sharp eyes, determined not to be cowed. “John Watson, yes.”

Mycroft's eyes zeroed in, looking for weaknesses, flaws, strengths, all the things a competent Were would look for when sizing up a possible opponent. “John Watson, then,” Mycroft repeated, more to himself, as if he were filing John's name away for future references. “If my brother doesn't survive this, you had better hope that you don't either.”

With that, the man nodded his head once. “Good day.” Then he was suavely sliding out the front door.

When John turned back, Lestrade was just releasing an uncomfortable looking Sherlock, and Molly was leaning up to kiss the Alpha on the cheek. Sally nodded, giving Sherlock a firm handshake, and Anderson was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Hudson embraced Sherlock tightly, kissing his forehead and brushing stray curls away like a doting mother. John didn't miss the tears in her eyes. The last to say goodbye was Victor.

“Leave us,” Sherlock commanded.

John followed as they all filed out, yet the burn of jealousy only grew stronger as he walked away. He didn't know why he felt so emotional about it, considering John had already known they were fucking long before his presence at the house. Obviously, it had been more than that if Sherlock needed to clear the room to say his goodbyes to Victor.

John pushed away the green-eyed monster whispering ugly things into his ear, and joined the others outside, where they loaded up their bags in an SUV. Mycroft's luxury car was still parked on the gravel, though the man was nowhere to be seen; probably already packed away inside, hidden behind tinted windows.

Lestrade stopped at the SUV and turned to John, regarding him with a serious countenance. “You take care of yourself, John, and Sherlock too. Take it from me, the man can be a handful, but I know you can handle it.” Lestrade cracked a smile, and John couldn't help but return it, though the moment of lightness was over too quickly. Lestrade placed a heavy hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. “You're a strong man, John Watson, a good man. Don't let him break you.”

John smiled, hiding his confusion at the words. Lestrade wasn't the type to speak in riddles, so what did he mean by that statement?

“Thank you, Lestrade, for fighting for me... you know,” John mumbled pathetically, waving his finger round, gesturing towards the house and the land, before using it to scratch behind his ear, awkwardly. He'd never been good at goodbyes.

Lestrade smiled, tipping back on the heels of his shoes as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Molly came up beside him, throwing her arms around John's neck with enough force to knock John a bit off balance. When he was steady again, John gripped her back in a tight embrace. Though he hadn't known her for very long, Molly had been very sweet to John during his stay, something he'd miss. “We'll see you again, right, John,” Molly whispered, a quiet question that made his throat feel thick. John didn't know what to say, stuck between honesty and a white lie. Would he come back with Sherlock if they survived? Did he want to?

“I don't know,” he replied, deciding that it was better to tell the truth, all he could find in himself to promise.

Molly released him and nodded with understanding, wiping the back of her hand across her cheek, catching a few stray tears. “Whatever you decide, just... don't die, okay?” That, John could certainly try not to do.

“I'll do my best,” John chuckled, stepping away and to the side.

Mrs. Hudson emerged from Mycroft's car, moving quickly towards John, and frighteningly, he could see the tears welling up again. Dear God, no.

“Oh John, dear, silly me! I forgot that you weren't coming with,” she said, dabbing at her eyes a bit with a monogrammed handkerchief, the letters 'MH' sewn in large, swirling letters. “You boys had better hurry to the estate, where it's safe, and I don't want to hear any of that nonsense about you not coming back with Sherlock, do you hear me?” John smiled, hugging Mrs. Hudson as she opened her frail arms to him. It felt good to be mothered, reminded him of his own, long gone, but never forgotten.

When Mrs. Hudson released him, the driver was already waiting at the car to open the door for her. She gave him a light peck on the cheek and returned to the car.

A few moments later, Victor emerged from the house, his lower lids burnished a dusky red, Sherlock behind him, though he didn't go past the threshold. Victor stopped before John, giving him a long, searching look, before he thrust his hand out between them.

John hesitated, though, rather unsure after the threat Victor issued the day before. The wolf that had constantly been so hostile towards him since his arrival, was now regarding John with something like forced acceptance. Could he trust it?

Reluctantly, he took Victor's hand, giving it a brief, firm shake and letting go. That was all, and then Victor was walking away and to the SUV, throwing his things in the back of the car.

John turned back to glance at Sherlock, wondering what the Alpha could possibly have said to Victor, that the man would willingly approach him, yet, Sherlock had already vanished.

John waved as the SUV pulled away, following Mycroft's sleek vehicle down the gravel, the weight on his chest only growing heavier.

Back inside, the house seemed oppressive without the usual noise to liven it up. It was empty and quiet, a replica of what it must have been before.

“John,” he heard from the other room, Sherlock, the only other occupant in this dead house.

John made his way back into the lounge, where Sherlock was pacing in the middle of the room, his hair a bit on the frantic side. “John, we must leave immediately if we want to get a head start. Based on our run-in with the hunters recently, they can't be far from this locale.”

John nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, in what seemed to be his self-defense mechanism, of late. “Whenever you are, Sherlock,” he stated.

Sherlock stopped, keen eyes roving over John in confusion, then enlightenment. “Oh of course, you don't have anything. Okay, I'll just...” The Alpha seemed flustered, scratching his head as he peered around the room in a dazed state. It seemed Sherlock wasn't used to being without a pack, either.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, yes” Sherlock stated brusquely “Come with me.” Sherlock swept out of the lounge, and up the stairs that led to his bedroom corridor. John could see as he passed that most of the rooms still had items left over, possibly things the wolves had collected, but held no sentimental value towards, and left behind.

Once they reached Sherlock's bedroom, John hesitated at the threshold. He'd never actually been in Sherlock's room before, only seen what he could from the angle of his own bedroom, but John respected Sherlock enough not to go snooping when the Alpha wasn't around, though he'd been tempted to.

Sherlock whizzed around the room, packing a small, specialized bag that he could strap on his body, sturdy enough to hold on during the change. He wasn't taking much, only a few odd things here and there, but John only leaned against the wall and watched Sherlock work. Sherlock moved with an endless grace that John found enviable, flitting from place to place without tripping over a single thing, as if he could traverse this death trap with his eyes closed. John supposed he could, given their superior eyesight, and more than exceptional sense of smell. Maybe he also had a photographic memory. After all, Sherlock was unusually brilliant, what was eidetic memory on a list of extraordinary feats?

When Sherlock was finished, he stopped, peering around one last time, a quick, one-footed spin, and he was turning to John with bright eyes. “We need food,” he said, and rushed past John, out of the room.

In the kitchen, Sherlock made room to pack a few bottles of water and snacks that could be eaten on-the-go. John made a quick sandwich for himself, Sherlock having turned his down, and ate, while Sherlock mapped out routes out loud.

By the time they were leaving, the sky was just turning darker hues of blues and pinks, the sun, a burnished orange bulb in the distance. “We'll go the long way, avoid the river. They'll expect us to stay close to a water source.”

John nodded, and the two of them set off for the tree line, the sound of the night growing louder the darker it became.

Just as they reached the start of the woods, Sherlock hissed, “Get down, behind the tree!”

With the adrenaline pumping through his veins, John ran the few feet to the tree, feeling Sherlock come up behind him, and as one, they peered out at the cabin, a lonely, hulking shadow in the distance. One by one, figures crept through the darkness on silent feet, large guns at the ready.

John's heart stilled in his chest. It was the hunters, and they had barely missed them.

The thought that moments ago, Sherlock was pacing around the kitchen and John was eating a sandwich at the table, was startling. A few minutes longer, and they would have been lying in puddles of their own blood.

“Breathe, John,” Sherlock soothed. There was a hand on John's back, smoothing in gentle circles, and he almost stopped to ask why, until he realized that he couldn't quite catch his breath. John was having a panic attack. “You have to breathe, John, we have to go, now.”

John waited, breathing in and out a few times, before he felt good enough to run. Sherlock was a steadying presence beside him, considering that the first time John had been through something like this, he'd been alone. “Alright,” he breathed, “I'm fine. Let's go.”

John ran, quick on Sherlock's heels, and determined not to look back at the cabin going up in flames.

 

\---

 

When they finally stopped for the night, they were kilometers away from their cabin. It would be at least a day for humans to catch up to them on foot. Sherlock felt they had an adequate head start.

To a human, it would be cold, but werewolves generated enough body heat to stay warm in lower temperatures, thus, John was perfectly fine not to start a fire. Besides, he didn't see how he would be able to sleep that night anyway, and Sherlock seemed to have came to the same conclusion. The two of them were leaned against the tree, sharing a bottle of water as the last of the light dipped under the horizon.

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts as usual, and John wasn't too keen on interrupting him, also lost in his own head.

John kept thinking of the dark figures of the hunters, so close to their victory. If Sherlock had decided to stay another night, they would be ashes in their beds, with no way to warn the others what was coming. It was frightening, and made John realize how close he'd come to death for the second time.

“Be quiet,” Sherlock hissed, and John jumped with the loudness of Sherlock's baritone cutting through the silence.

John turned to Sherlock, though the man's eyes weren't even open. “Uh, who are you talking to, Sherlock?”

“Oh, just the other man sitting here next to me,” Sherlock quipped snarkily, “yes, you, John. You're thinking quite loudly.”

John rolled his eyes, already exasperated with Sherlock. “How is that even possible!'

“You mine as well share with the class,” Sherlock griped, and John could feel his face heat red with blood, unsure if he was willing to share his fears with the Alpha. That would mean telling him what happened that day, to his pack, and his utter failure to defend them.

“I-,” he started, hesitant, and Sherlock turned to him fully, now, with piqued interest. “I was just thinking of how we barely made it out of there. How close I came to death... again.”

Sherlock didn't move or say anything, but John could feel those all-seeing eyes, picking him apart, though allowing John to say what happened in his own words. He was grateful that Sherlock had never blurted out his story, as the Alpha was prone to do with private things.

John glanced up, seeing the darkness in Sherlock's eyes, the one he'd seen earlier, when Mycroft brought up the topic of humans. It was such a profound hatred, palpable, even up close, and although John didn't exactly mirror that feeling, he felt slivers of it when he thought about the fate of his kin.

John was very bitter about it, but he knew that all humans weren't bad, just as all Weres were not good, either.

“Yet, you still don't hate them, why?” It was as if Sherlock read his mind, responding, not to what John had said, but rather, his reverie on humans.

John shrugged, unsure what Sherlock wanted to hear. Besides the hunters, who were bred to kill them, John hadn't spent much time with any humans. “I guess I've always just stuck with my own kind. Don't know many humans.”

John wanted to ask about Sherlock's experience with humans, but Sherlock's expression seemed almost forbidding. “Mrs. Hudson is a human, and she seems alright.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “the only human my mother could trust. She raised me.”

John turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the spark of pleasure at that tiny piece of Sherlock's history. “Wow,” John said, pursing his lips into mock pity, “poor Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock swiveled his head and cast John an icy glare. “No, _not_ poor Mrs. Hudson. I have it on good authority that I was a pleasant child,” he returned, dryly.

John snorted at that, sure that whoever said that was probably attempting to get on Sherlock's good side. He couldn't imagine the difficult, acerbic Alpha being anything but temperamental and pouty. John chuckled, looking back up to see Sherlock staring back at him, perplexed.

John's smile slipped away, realizing that it was the first time he'd laughed in a long time. Humour seemed an almost foreign concept to him after so long of not finding it in any situation.

“You will come back with me, when this is over,” Sherlock stated, matter-of-factually, though John didn't miss the slight inflection, almost unnoticeable, the question mark at the end.

John smiled, a feigned indulgence, and turned his eyes away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome and I am so sorry for making you wait for this new chapter. I'd run into a little roadblock with this chapter, but I am happy to say that I am back on board. Anyways, thank you all for the comments and kudos. You are all so amazing. Also, for those who don't know, I do have a [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com/) where you can follow me. I post update statuses and, occasionally, excerpts (also top!Sherlock-y stuff*). So if that's your thing, come meet me!


	9. Burial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home one final time and makes a request of Sherlock that may alter the outcome of his bleak future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is dedicated to a lovely reader of mine who surprised magnificent fanart for this story! It is now the cover or this story, which you will find on chapter one, but here's a [link](http://corscica.tumblr.com/image/132474492489) to the image on tumblr! Please show her some love if you can! Works like this need to go noticed! Thank you so much [corscica](http://corscica.tumblr.com/)! You are amazing and thank you so much for this time consuming, thoughtful, WONDERFUL gift!

_“Wake up…”_

“I'm awake, Bill.”

_“No, you're not. You could never fool me, John Watson.”_

“I wouldn't try.”

_“Liar…”_

There were fingers tip-toeing across his back, but when he turned there was nothing behind him. Just the same sticky darkness and the bark against his back. Sherlock was a frozen silhouette beside him. John waved a hand in front of the white-blue glow of Sherlock's phone screen, but Sherlock’s eyes didn't so much as flicker. He wasn't blinking. 

“Sherlock…”

 _“He can't hear you.”_ Bill’s voice was closer now, loud in the eerie silence, as if he were sitting right next to John, but again - nothing. 

The earth is sodden beneath his feet, soggy loam sucking at the soles of his trainers greedily. If it seems to crawl up the sides of his shoes, John doesn't pay it any mind, not with Bill closer than he’d been since his death. John isn't as surprised as he should be. 

“Where are you?”

_“Where you can't find me, but I'm right next to you.”_

It didn't make sense, but then it made more sense than anything John had ever tried to make sense of. Bill’s voice was solid, yet it carried on the wind, or what little seemed to permeate the dense foliage. Everything about the moment was contradictory, and yet, John understood that more this everything else. 

John turned to where he thought Bill might be, where the fingers walked over the nape of his neck like soft, cold caresses. “Am I safe?”

_“As houses. Then again, houses haven't been very safe, lately, have they John?”_

No. 

John said as much and Bill hummed, the breath equally as cold against his cheek as his touch had been. “They burned it… the hunters. They're looking for me. For all of us.”

Bill was quiet, and John missed his voice, the familiar drop of his baritone when they talked among themselves. Then, “Himself isn't such a bad fellow. Even in this… you're sleeping, but he's watching you.” Bill sighed, and the crush of leaves underfoot were sharp and crackling, brusque as Bill's steps often were. “Be cautious of that one, though. He's angry, and I know a thing or two about his kind.”

“You were angry, Bill.”

“I was.”

But Bill was the sort who could be passive aggressive, though it was rare. He had a kind of controlled anger that hung around him like a cloak. Bill never took his anger out on anyone, but it simmered behind his eyes like so many shadows, only to be thrown down like a gauntlet whenever they clashed. 

Bill never hid anything from John, never pretended that he was feeling any other way than how he felt. But Bill was always angry, though he used his emotions cleverly. 

John wondered if Bill found peace in death. “And now?”

Bill chuckled and it was hollow and fractured. “Not to say that death isn't a blast, but there are other things I'd rather be doing instead; watching out for your sorry arse, for instance.”

John smiled, but it wasn't for anything but show. Bill was but a remnant of the past, his disjointed voice just a projection of what John wished he still had. 

The loam was creeping up his ankle with a much grace as a serpent.

“John… as much as I would love for this to be a social call, I came to warn you.” Bill’s tone changed, curving low into something grave and unmistakably worried. “Your friend there knows things he's not telling you. You have no idea what you're walking into.”

John froze, inhaling sharply as his head whipped around to Sherlock, the blood in his veins running cold. He was no longer poised over his phone as he was before. Sherlock was staring at him, but again, it was with the same unnatural stillness as before. His eyes cut through the fog like headlights, piercing cyan circles that drew the breath from John's lungs. When had Sherlock moved?

“Does he know?”

More of those footsteps, until the sound cut off abruptly beside John. “No, but he might have an inkling as to _whom_ you're dealing with. Considering the circumstances, John, I think that’s something you might want to be aware of.” 

Bill: always a leader, even in death.

Bill’s next words were soft, yet they clamped down on his throat like pincers, and every attempt at ambiguity and avoidance flew out the window, and there was just the simple truth of his words. “You're getting distracted.” 

And it was true. John's mind was constantly on Sherlock as much as it was on the hunters, but even he was clever enough to know that that was an unhealthy balance. He was getting attached. 

“You always did have a way of bringing me back,” John said, his chest compressing painfully. Bill always knew what to say, even if it wasn't anything John wanted to hear. 

Bill laughed and it echoed hauntingly in between the trees. There were no sounds for miles; just Bill and his own voice and Sherlock's sharp gaze prickling at the back of his neck. 

“Oh, and one more thing. Don't bury me next to Harry. The wench will never let me sleep peacefully.” Bill's laughter was a wispy breeze that faded as his presence did. For a moment, John felt the soft press of lips against his own, and then it was gone. 

_“Wake up…”_

-

John's eyes snapped open with a sense of panic and dread clawing viciously between his ribs.

“John, wake up.”

Sherlock.

John blinked rapidly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with trembling hands. He stood, turning to where Sherlock was already waiting, rocking impatiently on his feet as John pulled himself together.

“We need to keep moving. The hunters can't be far behind,” said Sherlock, adjusting the strap of his bag over his chest as he turned on his heel and strode forward. 

John nodded once and followed quietly, trying to hold on the already fading conversation with his alpha from beyond. The scant few remnants of the dream he could remember were seemingly the most important bits. He mulled over Bill's warning and the chance that Sherlock knew more than he was telling. That wouldn't necessarily surprise John. Sherlock was enigmatic, if anything, and could parse information from a drop of water. Why wouldn't he have come to conclusions by then?

They walked for at least an hour without exchanging words, but John would catch the uncertain flick of Sherlock's eyes every so often, the tense line of his broad shoulders, hard and unyielding. 

They were getting closer. John could hear the familiar hum of life growing quieter as they neared his den, warded off by the proximity of humans and predators much more dangerous. John no longer felt the tingle of familiarity or the vibration of a constant connection that linked him to his kin. It was the sober kind of silence that left him empty. 

John momentarily oscillated between his lowest and highest point, between the decision to stay and face his past or flee towards an uncertain, unpredictable future. The closer they walked to the empty den, the harder John's heart hammered against his breastbone and the urge to run made him fidget with flightiness. But this was what he had to do, if not for the honour of his kin, then for his own peace of mind. 

_‘You have no idea what you're walking into.’_

Bill's warning from beyond the grave was startling, and John wondered if perhaps he should warn Sherlock. The alpha had to know that they could possibly walking into their own demise. 

Up ahead, the foliage began to thin, and John could see the beginnings of his den come into view, a shabby, crumbling shack that had once become home for John. They’d not thought much of aesthetics while seeking a den to settle in, and the inside was habitable. The shack was obscure and out of the way, a perfect hideaway and untraceable unless one knew where to look. Apparently they hadn't been as conspicuous as John first thought. Still, for years it had been a perfect den to seek a haven in and suited the needs of the pack. 

Nostalgia caused his eyes to water, and bitterness, his tongue to dry. This had been their Shangri-La. 

Sherlock paused at the edge of the trees and turned to survey John as he ambled unhurriedly to catch up with the alpha. Sherlock was curious, his eyes darting over John's face, taking in the strained lines about his eyes, the tense ridge of John's shoulders and the involuntary flex of his hands by his sides. What could be say?

John stopped next to Sherlock and his breaths began to grow shallow, his mouth parting to allow great gulps of air to filter through. Now that he was finally there, John felt out of his depth, uncertain what to do next. He knew where to find a shovel, where to find the bodies, but where did he begin?

“John,” Sherlock said softly, his mercurial eyes growing wary. 

John nodded, but failed to force his legs to move. Doing so would be visiting old memories, facing the death of his family, the people that he couldn't protect. The dearth of life where there was once a thriving pack - _his_ pack - nearly made his knees buckle. 

John's voice trembled when he spoke, the swell of sentiment cresting high and dipping low simultaneously. “I'm fine. I'm…”

Then he inhaled sharply, screwing his eyes shut as he knelt on one knee, head bowed. John's fingers touched the soil, remembering the tread of everyday life; hunting with the pack, roaming with Bill, his sister, Harry. He didn't cry. No, some things were best left for privacy. Sherlock didn't comfort him, but his silent companionship was enough. Even then, Sherlock watched him, was always watching, but this time there was the promise of something darker and pensive.

John remembered Sherlock's question, his hatred burrowed deep like a parasite. _‘Yet, you still don't hate them, why?’_

Because like wolves, humans were slaves to their instincts, slaves to fear and everything that made them feel inferior. Humans could be taught, humans could be redeemed. _This_ was the work of things far more sinister, and John refused to believe that all humans were the same. 

As a pup, John was taught to distrust humans and to fear them, but he was innately curious and that extended even to the present. Even when he’d seen the destruction that humans often wrought, John couldn’t bring himself to loathe them. He wanted to know more about them. 

John breathed deeply, his fingers shaking where they dug beneath the loam, pulling up tiny roots, and dirt shoving painfully beneath his nail beds. _‘Wake up…’_

John's legs were shaky when he finally brought himself to stand, and he avoided Sherlock's intrigued gaze, feeling bare and vulnerable. “I'm ready.”

Sherlock nodded firmly and led them away from the safety of the trees, his upper half curled forward and his steps light as he peered around the area, nostrils flaring.

It reeked of old blood and decay, and decomposers come to feast. For the first time, John cursed his heightened senses. The only other sound was the jubilant chirping of a robin singing its song high and loud, one short legato followed by a series of crisp, staccato notes. It reminded him of Mike Stamford, his pack brother and comrade, who had valued all life. John would spend nights sitting outside with Mike, listening to him prattle on about his time in London while the roe deer peeked cautiously around the trees and a tawny owl stared down at them superciliously from atop the great oaks. Sometimes, John would bask in the silence and often Bill would join him, one large hand resting possessively on the small of his back as they lost themselves in the constellations their ancestors once worshiped. 

The sharp snap of twigs brought John back to the present, looking up to see Sherlock flitting around almost manically, his eyes wild as they took in everything. Sherlock was a man possessed, afraid of missing something, though John didn't see much of anything. Anything of note to be found would be inside the house.

Whatever lingering scents of his kin that there were had been swept away by nature, and the stench of rot was overpowering. John couldn't tell if Sherlock was immune to the smell or ignoring it; either way, it made John's stomach turn over unpleasantly. 

Finally, his hesitant steps carried him across the dead grass and to the front door. It was still open, the way it had been when John fled after the fight with the hunters. John spotted his bloody hand-print on the doorknob, smeared and ugly against the brass, dark and rusted. 

With one twist, the door swung open slowly, creaking ominously on weathered hinges. The wave of memories pummeled him with strong, relentless fists and the sting behind his eyes was unavoidable. 

Nostalgia drifted in every corner, as did the lingering fetid stench of decomposition and death. The house was as quiet as John had ever heard it, and outside, the robin stopped singing and the woodpecker stopped tapping, and the wind was suddenly just a slight breeze that blew in the opposite direction. 

The house that once carried so much life was now a place of restless spirits. Humans maintained the stance that Werewolves were animals and soulless spawns of the devil - well, those who believed in such things - but John knew that to be a lie. He felt them there, lingering in every shadowy nook, could sense their eyes as he walked further into the room. Spirits that couldn't find rest until John did what he had to do. 

There were trails of dark streaks leading to the sitting room, where John would find the bodies in whatever state they may be. The sharp thump of Sherlock's boots approaching made his back stiffen. Before yesterday, John hadn't given any thought to burying his kin in any way but alone. Sherlock was the unexpected variable, the last person John would have expected to volunteer, to leave his pack in the care of a surrogate alpha. John knew it wasn't pure altruism. If Sherlock didn't find the head of the snake and cut it off, his pack would die next. But… there was something in the way he looked at John the night before, the way he’d enquired of John's plans to stay. Sherlock wanted him, John knew, but John wasn't even sure he was ready for anything, for another alpha. 

However, despite John's incertitude, Sherlock's presence was reassuring. He felt less like a man walking into certain death and more like he had a fighting chance against the Humans hunting him. Sherlock's hand was heavy upon his shoulder, and John hadn't realized how hard he was breathing until he turned to see the rapid up down motion of the fingers clamped on his shoulder. His chest was constricting and his throat seemed swollen beyond the ability to inhale. John realized that he was afraid; afraid to see what he only glimpsed at night when the dreams were at their worst. 

“We don't have much time, John,” stated Sherlock, hesitantly. It jolted John back to the present, unfamiliar with Sherlock being anything other than pushy and assertive.  
He was right. The hunters couldn't be too far behind, not after they realized the pack had already abandoned the cabin. 

John nodded once, resolutely, and steeled himself before following the trail of dried blood to the sitting room. 

John gagged immediately, covering his nose with the sleeve of his shirt as he surveyed the ramshackle room and the deteriorated corpses. What was left of his kin had been picked upon by scavengers, and upon close inspection, a home for smaller organisms. John turned, watching as Sherlock took it all in with dispassionate grace, but his eyes were lit like torches. With some disgust, John even noted that Sherlock seemed somewhat excited as he leaned forward to examine the bodies. Sherlock's long, slight frame circled the room like a bird of prey, peering down at the emaciated corpses, though he - barely - refrained from touching. 

John bristled in annoyance, but allowed his eyes to drift back to his kin. The attempt to move forward was slow and clumsy. He felt like he was wading in deep waters, trying to place one foot before the other but his center of gravity was shaky, at best. 

John spotted Harry instantly, her long blonde tresses now wisps of willowy, dusty grey strands. Her shirt was stiff and black with old blood and ripped, a horrid display of sticky viscera and a chest cavity full of maggots. It was ugly, hateful and certainly the last image of his sister that John would ever have. 

Then, there was Bill, who’d died fighting. He hadn't even changed back, and so the last John would ever see of Bill was a gnarled muzzle and his tawny, unseeing eyes. Most of all, there was nothing much of Bill left, but bone and gristle. 

John blinked rapidly, unable to stamp down on the surge of utter discontent, resentment and rage boiling up inside of him. He’d never felt so wretched, and John never had the inclination to make someone else feel the same until that moment. 

Simply burying his pack wouldn't be enough, John realized. Never. There was no way John would be capable of living with himself if he didn't avenge his family. That was the least they deserved. And Sherlock would see it through with him, if the hatred mirrored in those bright, cyan eyes was anything to go by. 

There was nothing of Mike left but a picked off torso and a few phalanges; he could only tell by the cracked, twisted wire-rimmed specs that lay just next to him. Clara’s body wasn't even there anymore. Another spirit that would never find rest. 

Sherlock was a fleeting presence, stomping up the stairs and around the other rooms for any information that he could find, so John retreated to the shed at the back of the house and grabbed a shovel. It was midday, but the sky was a quilt-work patch of white, puffy altostratus clouds and a nimbostratus moving in from the east. As per usual, the sun was a shy mistress. 

John dug as quickly as he was capable, taking care to dig deep enough that the bodies wouldn't wash up and the animals couldn't get to them. 

John was already halfway through the first grave when Sherlock appeared at the door, his face carefully blank, and though his eyes flashed curiously, his lips were pressed thin. Nothing to find, then.

Sherlock retrieved a shovel and began jabbing at the dirt for a second grave. 

John’s shirt was sticking to his body, and he swiped a forearm over his forehead and eyes to clear the sweat away. When he looked up to see Sherlock's progress, the other man was watching him closely, having paused in his work. It was Pavlovian, the instant catch in his breath and the way he trembled with something desperate under Sherlock's scrutiny. 

Sherlock didn't make a show of looking away or pretending that he hadn't been staring; he just went back to work and kept his lips sealed shut tightly. Afterwards, John was constantly aware of Sherlock's intense perusal. 

By the time they were finished digging all three graves, the storm cloud was directly overhead and the sky, unpropitiously dark. 

Carefully and with Sherlock's help, John hefted the bodies out of the house and gently laid them in the graves, a piece of him staying with each of them. 

It was already beginning to sprinkle when they began to cover the bodies with dirt. John couldn't describe how he felt in that moment, burying the only life he’d ever lived for a future unknown. John had no idea what would happen after he killed those hunters and avenged his family. He was a man with no purpose any longer, no one to live for, _nothing_ to live for but the war that was surely heading his way. 

They finished the task quickly, marking the grave sites with twigs wrapped in twine to fashion crosses. John didn't believe in human religions, or anything at all but the power of the constellations, but it didn't seem like enough to leave without some sign of remembrance. 

John knelt one last time at Bill's grave, intent on never returning. There was nothing he could think of saying, didn't know if it was the rain or the tears clouding his eyes, but John didn't care. His chest was a hollowed cavern, an empty memorial. Who was John without his mate? What was a wolf without a pack? Who was a man without a family? 

He was soaking, and Sherlock was soaking and there was a clock ticking _down down down_ , but John couldn't bring himself to think past the overwhelming current of grief and anger and _hate_. John never hated anyone more in his life than the hunters who took the lives of his pack unrighteously. He never hated anything more in his life than the inability to kill right that second. If he died in the process, well that would be fine, but if Sherlock died… that would be entirely upon John's head and conscience, because Sherlock Holmes did not deserve to die for the sake of John Watson. 

But he would need Sherlock's help.

John stood and walked to the treeline where Sherlock was waiting for him. The other man was looking at him with a deep, profound stare that John translated almost immediately, because he felt it as harshly as he ever had. Hatred. Rage. Loss. Hatred. Rage. Loss… Acceptance. 

So John held his stare and stepped up until their chests touched. Sherlock's heavy gaze cut through the sheets of rain, droplets shimmering like pearls on the tips of his lashes as he blinked once. Then John walked past him and into the foliage, assured that Sherlock was one step behind him. 

He didn't look back.

\---

They found a small inlet in a rock formation that was big enough to shelter them after a few hours of walking, when the sky began to darken and the rain pelted painfully upon their skin. The area was deserted and there were no tracks or scents to alert them that anyone had been there. 

John ate the little snacks from Sherlock’s bag and Sherlock sat back against the wall with his eyes closed. The floor of the inlet was thinly covered with patches of grass and vines, but John had slept in worse. Other than the unyielding hardness of the ground pressed against his arse, John paid no mind to their rudimentary refuge. 

When he was finished with the half of a sandwich, John sighed and pulled his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he stared out at the storm. 

He cleared his throat and turned to see Sherlock's eyes snap open and regard him expectantly. Before John could force the words out and try to reason with the man, Sherlock piped up unpredictably. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. 

Bemused, John shifted uncomfortably and frowned at his companion. “Yes, what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his tone was neutral as he answered with, “Yes, I'll help you find the people who've done this, but I want something in return.”

John shook his head slightly in befuddlement, wary as he took in Sherlock's quick response and the gleam in the alpha’s eyes as he watched John fidget beneath his gaze. “What could I possibly have that you would want?”

Sherlock's answering smile was odd enough to inspire a full body shiver. John tried to convince himself that it was his reaction to the wet clothes on his body and the howling wind outside the inlet, but Sherlock didn't let him. 

“I think we both know what an idiotic question that is, John. Surely,” Sherlock said slowly, stopping to flick his eyes down and then up John's body in an engulfing motion that spoke far louder than any words. “I don't have to spell it out for you.”

John shook his head angrily, unsure if Sherlock truly was ignorant to emotions or plainly ignoring them. “I'm not ready.”

“Yes. I'm not expecting anything from you at this moment.”

“Then…”

Sherlock paused, his lips parted as if he’d only just realized something. His eyes shown like shined jewels in the darkness of the cavern with wonder and excitement. “It's not about sex, if that's what you're thinking. I've lived before without sex for years and I've come to the conclusion long ago that this, all of this,” Sherlock flopped a hand in the general direction of his body, “is just transport. Sex is a convenient tool when getting what I want or when my body craves it, but it is a rarity when it becomes so demanding that I can't think. You do this to me, and I may resent you for it, but I don't truly know anything about you and nothing irks me more than ignorance.”

John's brows furrowed, and he waited for Sherlock to say more, but the man only watched him in turn, and John scratched the back of his head for lack of anything better to do with his hands. “What are you saying, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hissed angrily and slapped his hand against the ground, the sound barely audible under the strike of thunder outside. His tone was seething when he spoke, dipped in condescension and delivered in a sharp bark. “I'm saying that if I help you avenge your pack, then you will come back with me, and you will join my pack as my _mate_.” Sherlock crawled forward in the small space until his chest was pressed against John's knees and he was leaning forward on his hands. “No, sex isn't a priority, but that's not to say that the idea hasn't crossed my mind many times.”

John pressed back against the wall, ignoring the sting of the bumpy ridges pushing uncomfortably into his shoulder blades. He was breathless and the space seemed much too small for the both of them. Sherlock was only inches away from his face. He could feel Sherlock's breath fanning across his face. “Sherlock, _what_?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John's lips and lingered, before meeting his eyes again. “Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about our little dalliance in the forest, after the ambush. That wasn't merely enough to satisfy me, but I won't push for more, because I know you're not ready, but _when_ it happens – and it will happen again - I want _all_ of you.” 

Sherlock paused and John might as well be frozen, because he couldn't get his limbs to move. Sherlock's eyes were moving between his eyes and lips and John was falling off of this impossibly tall spire of lust and grief, plummeting headfirst into turbulent waters. 

The sad thing was, John was having trouble keeping his hands by his sides when Sherlock so close. 

Abruptly, Sherlock pulled back and whipped out his phone, leaving John to calm his harsh breaths and close his gaping mouth. 

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock muttered, “we’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

And so John stretched out on the small space provided and turned over, his back facing Sherlock. Ready to escape reality, John closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. 

Slowly it came, but come it did, nevertheless, and John was deep in REM sleep when Sherlock pulled out the crumpled paper he’d found in John's den. 

 

_“Oranges and lemons” say the bells of St. Clement’s,_

_“You owe me five farthings” say the bells of St. Martin’s_

_“When will you pay me?” say the bells of Old Bailey_

_“When I grow rich” say the bells of Shoreditch_

_“When will that be?” say the bells of Stepney_

_“I do not know” say the great bells of Bow,_

_“Here comes a candle to light you to bed._

_Here comes a chopper to chop off your head._

_Chip chop chip chop – the last man’s **dead**.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates!


	10. Wander/Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this was a long time coming, but never fear, I am back and this story is back on the schedule. Thank you so very much to my great betas Crickette, [Superoreoman](http://superoreoman.tumblr.com), and Kami-no-ikku. You guys took me to task over this chapter, but I've never been prouder of an update. Thank you all so much!
> 
> **Warning: Some disturbing imagery in this chapter. Viewer discretion is advised :)**

“ _Sherlock!”_

_Sherlock pressed himself back against the tree, feeling the sting of the bark cutting into the back of his elbow. His chest heaved with the effort not to giggle, but a few noises slipped past his lips anyway._

“ _Sherlock, if you don't come out now, Mummy will be very cross when we're not back in time for dinner!” Mycroft called, huffing tiredly as he looked for_ _his errant_ _little brother._

_Sherlock peeked around the tree, one stray curl falling into his eyes. He loved playing Hide and Seek with Mycroft, even when his brother didn't know they_ were _playing. Mycroft had the best hearing out of their pack, even better than their father_ _-_ _and_ he _was the pack alpha. Sherlock knew that if he moved, Mycroft would instantly know where he was hiding._

“ _Sherlock!”_

_Mycroft's voice was further now, so Sherlock tilted his nose to the air and sniffed delicately, tiny nostrils flaring. Mummy said he had the best nose of them all, so Sherlock trusted his sense of smell when it informed him that no one was nearby._

_Sherlock tore away from the tree, letting his short legs take him further into the thicket. He couldn't see the top of his house anymore, and the smell of Mummy's cooking was faint, if not completely gone. It was not quite twilight, but it was getting close. The sun was just peeking from behind the edge of t_ _he_ _trees, and when Sherlock peered up, all he could see between the leaves was a red-blue sky._

_There was only so far his eight-year-old legs could take him, and yet, Sherlock felt like he could run forever. Mycroft always hated it when he ran off, but Sherlock thought they had so much fun together when they played like this. Mycroft never played Pirates with him anymore, and he always wanted Sherlock to do math equations he already knew the answers to,_ _or_ _name chemical compounds. It was all so very boring. Sherlock loved to learn, but he loved to play, too._

_His curls were wet with sweat, and his shirt soaked right through. Mummy wouldn't be happy, but Sherlock would tell her about all the fun he had, and she would listen with that encouraging little smile, and tell him to go on, because no one ever truly listened to Sherlock except his mummy. She loved him._

“ _My little pup,” she'd say lovingly, and run her fingers through his curls, whether they were sweaty or not. Sherlock would pout and fold his arms, and demand she not treat him like a_ _child. Alt_ _hough, he secretly liked it when she held him and kissed his forehead. “I'm certain you can find less dangerous things to do out in the wood, hm?”_

_Sherlock would sigh in exasperation, and_ _clamber into his mummy’s lap_ _,_ _willing her to understand_ _. “But_ _Mummy,_ _it's fun!”_

_Mummy would smile indulgently and say, “I'm sure, my ever-curious one.”_

_Sherlock ran until his legs were aching and his hands were numb from the cold_ _. He didn't have_ _a care in the world for the possibility that he had gone too far, or even where he'd end up. All he wanted was an adventure. Maybe he would find a friend in the woods. He knew there were other wolves, but Mycroft never let him talk with anyone outside of the pack, no matter how lonely Sherlock would_ _get_ _sometimes. Other pups got to have friends, so why couldn't he?_

_It was nearly fully dark when Sherlock found a small stream. It was narrow enough to_ _easily cross_ _, but Sherlock was thirsty, so he stopped and stooped down, cupping his hands in the rushing water and bringing them to his lips. It was cool and replenishing, and Sherlock liked it better than the water from the taps that Mycroft made him drink._

_After a few more handfuls of water, and Sherlock's belly felt full. He stood and looked around, brushing dirt off his trousers, because Mummy really didn't like when he came home dirty and sat at the dinner table._

_He wasn't anywhere that he was familiar with, but it wasn't the first time Sherlock had wandered_ _this far_ _. The last time, he'd simply followed his scent trail back to the path that led him home. Mycroft and Mummy were furious, but Sherlock could never understand why. He didn't bring in anything dead and he'd taken his shoes off at the door so as not to track mud on the floor._

_Sherlock was fascinated with the woods at night. It was a different world when the moon came out. The creatures were different, the air wasn't as stuffy, and the moon always seemed to comfort him, even when there was no logical explanation for it._

_Sherlock crouched as he heard the sound of twigs snapping, and loud, rustling footsteps_ _;_ _several. He stayed low to the ground and crossed to a tree that was close by, pressing himself flat_ _against_ _it. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that Mycroft hadn't found him just yet._

_A loud yelp rang out, causing Sherlock to nearly jump out of his skin, but he recovered quickly, afraid to be heard._

“ _Get him outta the rope, he's not goin' anywhere,”_ _a_ _voice instructed calmly. Sherlock had never heard an accent like his before. Everyone in_ _the Holmes_ _pack all spoke with precise_ _pronunciation_ _, and never let him slip up on his words without at least a glare. A stranger, then. Maybe they could be friends._

_Before Sherlock could reveal himself, there was a crackle like electricity and a long, loud whine that only elevated in sound until Sherlock's ears were ringing. Sherlock's nose stung with the acrid scent of urine and blood._

_Slowly, he peeked around the tree, his eyes widening._

_There was a wolf_ _lying limp on its side, whining softly as a group of men surrounded it in an unorganized semi-circle. The one nearest to the wolf held a long, black rod that emitted crackling blue light at the tip. When the man pressed the end into the wolf's side,_ _the wounded creature_ _curled into itself, too weak to do anything but howl out a barking yelp._

_Sherlock knew that it wasn't just a simple wolf, and even if it were, why would the humans waste their time torturing it_ _?_ _He could feel the wolf's fear, smell it, fetid like death. Ordinary wolves felt fear, too, but there were subtle differences to the scent that Mycroft always taught Sherlock to look for. This wolf smelled like a home, somewhere sterile and human_ _;_ _not a den in the wild, then. He'd assimilated into human society, but somehow, he'd been discovered. He smelled like chemically altered fragrances_ _-_ _a cologne, perhaps_ _-_ _and mint, like_ _toothpaste_ _. Sherlock sniffed the air once more. Definitely a Were._

_Sherlock was torn between fear and fascinatio_ _n. T_ _inny alarm bells in the back of his mind were telling him that he should be running away,_ _but_ _the_ _re was the_ _innate urge to sate his curiosity._

“ _Filthy flea bag,_ _”_ _one man said, and stepped forward to kick the wolf sharply. “He's not gonna change back.”_

_Another man scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “What's the point of killin' 'im if he won't? Otherwise, it'll look like we jus' killed a_ _bloody_ _dog!”_ _h_ _e exclaimed. “There's no message in that, and we'll jus' come out lookin' like a couple of fuckin' pricks.”_

_Kill him? They were going to kill the wolf? Well, he had to have done something terrible to warrant an execution, Sherlock reasoned to himself._

_The man holding the electrical rod - obviously the one in c_ _harge -_ _tilted his head, sizing up the wounded wolf with a critical stare. Sherlock could see th_ _e_ _leader pondering this all, quietly, in the light of his companion's torches. He was calm, and his dark eyes were a bottomless well beneath his cap. “It will change back,” he stated surely. “When they die, they change back.”_

_No one challenged the man, though they exchanged looks of uncertainty with one another._

“ _But first, give me your blade,” the leader said, holding his hand out to the man who'd stepped forward to issue a kick, never once looking away from the limp creature on the ground or moving his rod from its threatening position near the wolf's_ _ribcage_ _. “A quick death is a mercy for these dogs.” The man spoke slowly, clearly, like a tutor going over a lesson, and the others listened with rapt attention. “They don't deserve it, and it won't send a proper message.”_

_When the blade was placed in his palm, the man clutched it,_ _cast_ _ing the rod off to the side, where the blue light on the tip flickered out. He knelt_ _;_ _a small, gentle smile playing at his lips as he listened to the wolf whine softly. “It's nothing against you, really,” the man stated conversationally. “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Then, he lowered the knife to the wolf's neck, dragging it across the throat with a steady hand._

_That was the last thing Sherlock saw before a hand fell over his eyes, and another over his mouth, wrapping him up in a strong hold. Panicking, Sherlock began to flail, but a familiar voice whispered quietly in his ear, “Be still.” It was Mycroft._

_Sherlock might not have been able to see anything, but he could still hear the loud, choking gurgles coming from the wolf, the faint wheezes as he tried to breathe. Even with his eyes covered, Sherlock could see perfectly, the way the wolf would squirm in panic, his blood soaking the soil beneath his body, his chest heaving as he tried to pull in air. He wanted to cry._

_The wolf had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, the human had said, so that meant he hadn't done anything wrong. The humans had taken a wolf and killed him for no reason. Why?_

_Mycroft was_ _pull_ _ing away slowly, and his lips grazed Sherlock's ear as he whispered, “I'm going to turn us around, and when I do, I want you to run as fast as you can. Run, and don't look back, no matter what you may hear, do you understand me?”_

_Sherlock nodded vehemently, willing to do anything his brother said at that moment. He was afraid and he wanted to go home and hug Mummy._

_Mycroft turned around, his feet soundless on the ground, and carefully unwrapped his arms from around Sherlock. “Go,” he ordered, so Sherlock turned to look at his brother, who was unbuttoning his shirt, before spinning on his heels and setting off towards the house with the scent of his trail firmly in his nose._

_The screams of the humans followed him home._

 

_-_

 

Sherlock sat at the opening of the inlet, watching the rain fall with shuttered eyes. He never slept much before, but now it was impossible.

He had someone to protect.

Sherlock didn't turn to look at his companion. He could feel him, could smell his scent as strongly as if John were sitting beside him. Soft, even breaths filled up the small space of the stone cave as John rested, if somewhat tirelessly, a few feet behind him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his legs and pulled them to his chest, straining his neck to see past the ceiling of the inlet and up at the sky. It was mute grey and moonless, covered completely by a giant cumulonimbus cloud that pelted the ground with sheets of water. The rock formation was on higher ground, so at least they weren't at risk of being flooded out, but all the same, it was important to be watchful.

Behind him, John murmured unintelligibly, turning onto his side, facing Sherlock's back. Sherlock turned his head slightly, his gaze roving over John's slack features with something akin to affection warming his belly.

John had been a... surprise. Granted, their relationship had begun tumultuously, but the subsequent battle with the hunters had forged a tenuous camaraderie between them. Then it had become something more, something... dangerous and unexpected. What happened in the woods the day of the ambush hadn't been planned. There was no way for Sherlock to have known that seeing John bathed in blood and standing by his side would affect him so drastically. John had already given him his submission, but at that moment, he'd given loyalty without a thought.

John was strange. The wolf had been nothing more than a captive to Sherlock, so what would make him risk his life for his captor? If the ambush had been successful, John would have been free. Of course, the hunters would have inevitably gotten to John, but he wasn't to know that. So, why?

There was also the attraction to think of. John wasn't anything special. Plainly speaking, he was an average man; a little shorter than usual, but otherwise, there was nothing spectacular about him. Yet, Sherlock had wanted him so strongly that he'd risked his life to accompany John on a journey that held little benefit for him or his pack.

He wanted John, wanted to claim him, fuck him, keep him, captivate him, dazzle him, imprison him; whatever it would take to make him stay.

The night Sherlock had found John in the woods had been unusual. There had been other times he'd found wolves on his territory, and he'd either ran them away or killed them when they challenged him, even the ones that were obviously wounded. Sherlock wasn't altruistic, and he didn't pretend to be. They weren't important to him, and saving them wouldn't have done any good for Sherlock besides give him another mouth to feed. As the pack grew, they were also in danger of being found out, so Sherlock often had to fight to keep his group as small as it was.

John had been weak. Sherlock could have killed him and been done with it, yet he'd taken him to the cabin and provided him with a place to heal, which became his home also, for the short time he was there. Then, after the ambush, Sherlock had given up all pretenses of disinterest. Sex with Victor had never been nearly as arousing as having John's legs around his waist and his cock in Sherlock's grip. Sherlock had relished the scratches John had left on his back, and the ones he’d carved into John's golden-hued thighs.

Sherlock turned back to the rain, his fists clenching as he attempted to ward off the warmth climbing up his body.

John was right there. His interest was obvious and he would be easy and pliant from sleep. Sherlock could turn him onto his stomach without much fuss, put his tongue in John's arse to make him ready. Then, he could push himself inside and take what he wanted. John's knees would be bloody from the ground, hands scraped, and hair messy from Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock closed his eyes, his jaw tensing as he ground his teeth together.

No. John wasn't ready. The events from earlier in the day had proved that. John was hurt, and Sherlock was angry. Not because John was hurt, but because he was at his end with the hunters and their game. He deserved to live, every wolf did, and not in fear for their lives. Sherlock wanted to kill them all. Every last one of them, even the innocents. Then, the wolves could begin a new world, maybe keep a few of the humans and make examples out of _them._

Ever since that night in the woods when he was young, Sherlock hadn't been able to forget what he’d seen. That incident hadn't endeared him to humans, but it didn't exactly make him hate them, as traumatic as it was. No, there were other things… terrible memories that Sherlock didn't find comfort in dwelling on. Thinking of them would often send him into a black mood for days, and he didn't have the time nor the luxury to indulge in it. John wasn't a weak man, but Sherlock knew the pain of loss, and the state of mind that came with it. He would need Sherlock to lead, and he couldn't very well do that by dwelling on the past.

Sherlock sighed and rested his forehead on his knees, breathing deeply. His thoughts turned to the paper he'd found at the house.

It was an old nursery rhyme - quite a violent one - that humans liked to teach their children for whatever reason, but not very ambiguous in terms of what this person had in mind for them.

Sherlock had found it lying innocuously on the kitchen table, a direct contradiction to the clutter and chaos of its surroundings. The smell of cologne lingered on the paper, something expensive, sparingly used. The handwriting was telling, almost old-fashioned in nature; neat cursive and open letters. The t's crossed at the top, which suggested that the writer was stubborn, determined.Opened o's, so a talkative person, and the loop of the l's was wide, which pointed towards someone who was spontaneous, whimsical. It didn't add up.

The actions of the hunters led Sherlock to imagine a hateful man, yet the writing was that of an open person; Sherlock would even go so far as to say friendly. However, going by what little evidence he had would be a fatal mistake. Sherlock would need something more. He had a feeling that the nursery rhyme was only the first clue of many. He would be remiss in thinking that this person wouldn't find a way to get the next one to him, somehow.

It was a game, Sherlock realized. The hunters had known where they were, had done the equivalent of smoking John out of his den and leading him straight to Sherlock, and somehow, they were aware that John would return to bury his pack mates.

It was traditional to bury fallen mates in Were society, but mostly only wolves were privy to this information, and they were all notoriously private. Whoever it was that gave orders to the hunters had intel. Someone was giving their secrets to the humans, and the humans were using it to hunt them down.

Sherlock felt his nails biting into his palms as he clenched them, listening to the satisfactory pop of his knuckles.

Whatever was going to happen, it would happen soon, and Sherlock was ready for it. He already missed the slide of blood running through his fingers.

 

-

 

When John awoke, the storm had passed for the most part, and the sky was pale and clear. His sleep hadn't been disturbed by ghostly figures, but each time he would drift between moments of sleep and consciousness, John always had the distinct sensation that he was being watched.

He rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling for a moment, getting his bearings straight. His head felt muddy and unclear, and his eyes took longer than normal to focus on the cracks lining the inlet's ceiling. John scrubbed at his eyes with his palms and sighed, before pulling his hands away and sitting up.

Sherlock was sitting at the opening of the alcove. His body was angled partially towards the outside, but he'd turned his head to evaluate John with several long sweeps of his sharp gaze. It lingered where his shirt had ridden up a few inches, exposing the bottom half of his side. From there, they slid up to meet John's eyes, completely unabashed at his slow perusal. For reasons John would rather not examine, Sherlock's attention excited him.

“Are you ready to move on from here?” Sherlock inquired, his eyes narrowing slightly. Whatever Sherlock was thinking, the man was obviously unwilling to share, John assumed, as the man's lips drew into tight line.

John nodded, running a hand through his hair. He still felt sluggish, and his skin itched. John didn't know if it had to do with the fact that he'd slept on the ground, or that he hadn't changed in too long.

Sherlock led them out of their shelter and back onto an unseen trail, pulling his pack over his shoulder. He tossed John a bottle of water. “Drink,” he ordered indifferently, and led them around a fallen tree.

John took a sip of the water and screwed the cap back on, peering around to see if he could get clues of their location. “Where are we going?”

Sherlock didn't turn to him, but answered nonetheless. “My brother has an estate in Sussex; that's a two-day journey from where we are now, allowing time for rests throughout the day.”

John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn't see him.

At a stream, Sherlock stopped to refill the empty water bottles, and placed them back in his pack, before continuing on.

An hour into their journey, John realized that Sherlock wasn't referencing a map. “Do you have these woods memorized?” John asked, stepping over a large, protruding root.

Sherlock slowed to match strides with John, his eyes squinted as he looked into the distance, guarded and alert. “I've most of England memorized,” he stated, though not arrogantly. “Mycroft used to take me around, mostly when we were younger, and occasionally when we were teenagers. He showed me how to mark places with my scent and use landmarks to find my way.

“I've walked these woods before, and these trees are old. Most of them I use for guidance, which is why I've never understood how some could get lost in here,” Sherlock said, gesturing to their surroundings. “I also have an eidetic memory.”

John chuckled, mostly at himself for forgetting to whom he spoke. It didn't surprise him at all that Sherlock could look at something and remember every detail of it. John just thought of it as another piece of information to file away about his extraordinary companion. To think that this was a man that had expressed his desire to mate with John the night before. If John was honest with himself, he was a bit flattered. Curious, too.

John nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but was surprised when he turned to see Sherlock already staring back at him. “What?”

A tiny, crooked smile hovered near the corners of Sherlock's lips as he looked forward again. “You're an odd creature.”

Bemused, John raised his eyebrows in askance, knowing that Sherlock's peripheral vision was exemplary.

“You find humour in the queerest things,” Sherlock replied, shrugging as though it should not interest him, but curiosity coloured every word.

John smiled, then, thinking that if there was one thing this genius didn't know about, it was humour. “I just find it hard to be surprised when I learn something else about you. I'd be more surprised to know of something you _can't_ do,” he said, blushing lightly. Since when did he blush?

Sherlock levelled a peculiar look at John, seeming pensive. “There are... many things I am incapable of doing.”

John raised a brow. “Like what?”

Sherlock sighed, his eyes wandering upward for a moment in thought, before they cut back down to John. “I don't converse well,” he said, reticent, “and as I'm sure you've noticed, I don't get on well with others, ninety-nine percent of the time.” He paused, as if about to add more to his statement, but John could see the moment he’d turned his thoughts inward.

“I think you're doing a fine job,” John mollified, smiling gently as Sherlock's eyes met his with some surprise, then restrained pleasure.

“You're different,” he said quietly, holding John's eyes for several long seconds, until John finally gave in and looked away. The conversation was edging dangerously close to forbidden territory, but John couldn't stop himself from asking what he really wanted to know.

“Is that why you asked me to mate with you?”

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He took his time mulling over the question, though outwardly, John didn't see much of a change from his carefully constructed nonchalance. When he finally did answer, John couldn't help but hold his breath.

“Do you remember when I told you that you weren't aware of the power you possessed?”

John nodded. He remembered well, Sherlock's body up against his own, warmth driving out the cold, and his hands... Sherlock walked away from him that night, too. “Yes.”

Sherlock's jaw clenched as he stared forward. “I meant that.” Sherlock hesitated before continuing. “Last night, I debated whether or not to turn you over and have my way with you.”

Sherlock allowed the words to settle between them, and John swallowed at the weight of them. “And why didn't you?” he asked with a tight throat, hoping that Sherlock hadn't heard the crack in his voice.

Sherlock stopped and turned to him abruptly, and John nearly tripped over his feet. “Wha-”

Sherlock blocked out all the light with his proximity, until all that filled John's vision was pale skin, dark hair, and grey, grey eyes. “You tempted me,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes sliding down John's body with a nearly manic hunger. “I thought about what it might be like to fuck you that way; half-asleep, soft, vulnerable… but you would have resented me for it later.”

John stared, his eyes switching back and forth between Sherlock's eyes and his mouth, then back again. He thought of his dream of Bill. It was all still so fresh in his mind, then having to bury his mate's body. Sherlock was right; John would have resented Sherlock, and most of all, himself.

“Don't offer me something you aren't ready to give,” Sherlock added, his stare pinning John in place.

John licked his lips, swallowing, then nodded.

Sherlock blinked, appearing to snap himself out of whatever thought that had taken over, and turned on his heels.

John followed.

 

-

 

They found a small clearing to settle at late in the evening. By this time, John's feet were numb and his bladder was full, so he found a place to relieve himself before returning to their camp.

“You should rest. I can stand watch this time,” John offered, realizing that Sherlock hadn't slept in days. John had to force a packet of crisps on him earlier in the day, worried that Sherlock would fall over. As far as John had seen, Sherlock seemed fully awake, but John identified a few signs of fatigue popping up here and there.

Sherlock was hesitant, but after a few minutes of John wearing him down, the man flopped petulantly down on the ground and turned onto his side, with his back facing John.

John wasn't sure if Sherlock actually slept, but his breathing was even and not a peep came from him.

It was sometime past midnight when John heard a noise from the woods. It hadn't been loud, and John would have mistaken it for an animal had Sherlock not leaped up immediately, his metaphorical – but soon to be literal – hackles raised as his eyes scanned the foliage.

John widened his stance, ready to fight if need be, and followed Sherlock as the man bent quietly and retrieved his pack from the ground, silently placing it over his shoulder.

Carefully, the man crouched lower to the ground - a feat John thought admirable for his long form - and slunk towards the safety of the shadows. Like the otherworldly creature that he was, Sherlock blended with the darkness, his form vibrating as he began to change. Sherlock's clothes were in tatters, but John was sure he had a second set in his pack.

To John, any other wolf with a pack strapped around their shoulder would look ridiculous, but on Sherlock, it disappeared against his dark, hulking figure. The mass of his midnight fur enveloped it until it was barely visible.

Forcibly tearing his attention back to the possible threat, John crouched behind him, unchanged, and waited for a signal.

Sherlock never gave one.

Before John realized what was happening, Sherlock sprang from his low crouch and violently tackled a figure that John hadn't seen from where he stood.

Sherlock's massive form loomed over a frightened human, a young one by the looks of it, his spiked teeth already hovering over the man's throat.

The stranger had his hands up, palms facing out in submission, but Sherlock was growling which meant this human didn't have much time.

The human breathed shakily, on the verge of tears. Trembling, he stuttered, “I-I've come with- with a message for you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, comments, con-crit are always welcome! 
> 
> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates and your general Sherlockian fix!


	11. Johnny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A message from a mysterious madman, and the wolves need to relieve some stress. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning for some violence and disturbing imagery.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to my wonderful beta, Morgan, and to [Crickette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette) for making me get off my butt and finish this chapter. You two are amazing and forces to be reckoned with.

The man moved to reach for his pocket and Sherlock's low growl rose to a hair-raising snarl as his shining, black lips peeled away from his pointed teeth.

The human whimpered, wide eyes darting between Sherlock's massive jaw and dark, glittering eyes. A long, pink tongue swiped across his dripping muzzle. John had never been sure if Sherlock was a man-eater before. Not all wolves enjoyed the taste of human flesh, but the gleam of hunger in his eyes as he pinned the man left no doubt in John’s mind.

Unwilling to prove that theory, John stepped out of the bush cautiously, peering around at their surroundings in case the boy might have brought friends. The wind carried no scent but their own and the lone human.

As John approached, the human craned his neck towards him with beseeching eyes, attempting to put as much distance between him and Sherlock’s drooling fangs.

“P-please. My pocket,” the man stuttered, too frightened to do much more than gesture vaguely towards the bottom half of his body, shadowed beneath Sherlock's considerable bulk.

John hadn't ever been near Sherlock's wolf form as a human. He was dwarfed beside him, and the sheer power emanating from Sherlock's broad body made him shiver with reverence and excitement. Everything about him demanded submission and promised protection.

John came to stand next to him, awed that the length of Sherlock's head was more than half his height. Sherlock shifted and John realized that he was allowing John room to crouch beside him, though he never let up on the human.

“Which one?” John asked, giving the human a hard stare. Sherlock's reverberating growl at his shoulder fortified his silent threat. Any games, and death would be swift.

The man nodded vehemently, then said, “Left. The—the left.”

John reached for his left pocket, keeping his touch cautious and perfunctory as he slipped his finger into the opening. Sherlock's snarl went up a notch and John froze, glancing up at the alpha quizzically, but the wolf was glaring unwaveringly at the young human.

John returned his attention to the task at hand and felt around until his hand came into contact with a slip of paper. Slowly, he withdrew it. He unfolded it.

John lowered the note, turning to Sherlock uncertainly. Whoever this was, he sounded mad at any rate, and he’d mentioned another note. Had Sherlock found a clue he hadn't told John about?

There's no way this person would have been able to send Sherlock a message unless they’d somehow made contact before burning down his den. Or maybe he’d found something at the house… But if that were the case, wouldn't he have shared it?

John held it over his shoulder where Sherlock could read it and addressed the human. “Who sent you?”

The man shook his head, his face ashen as Sherlock's growl took on a new level of ferocity. “I can't. He’ll—they’ll kill me if I talk to you.”

Sherlock barked out a guttural snarl and John leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded the man indifferently. “You've got more immediate problems, mate,” he urged, tilting his head towards the giant wolf crouched over the both of them. “You can talk, or…” John glanced at Sherlock, who licked his chops menacingly, then back at the young human. “You can die.”

The human's eyes grew misty as they darted around the surrounding forest, into the dark foliage, as well as he could. His chest heaved and John allowed himself a moment of sympathy for the young man. Whoever sent him didn't care much for his life at all, knowing how volatile Sherlock was when it came to humans. He was dispensable and likely knew that backup wasn't spared for those at the bottom of the totem pole.

This person had sent the messenger fully intending for him to be killed. Once the message was relayed, of course. Judging by Sherlock's reaction to it, death wasn't off the table for the young human.

“Look! Look,” the human shouted, trembling hands held up like a barrier between Sherlock’s teeth and his bobbing throat. “I dunno his name. I don't even know who these people are! I was—I was on my way to Sainsbury’s, and these men, they just stuck something in my neck and I blacked out. Next thing I know, some bloke is sticking something in my pocket—”

The rumble emitting from Sherlock's throat seemed to deepen and shake the ground beneath their feet. John had to fight his instincts to scrape his belly against the dirt in submission. One thing was clear, Sherlock wasn't planning on allowing the human to live.

“Please—please, don't let him—”

“Sherlock,” John warned. If the man was telling the truth, then Sherlock might be intending to harm an innocent human. “Sherlock, he may be telling the truth. If we listen to him, he could have more information for us—”

The human was hysterical at this point, and John could barely hear himself over the timbre of Sherlock's aggression.

In a move that John wasn't expecting, the human grabbed frantically for his pocket and stuffed something in his mouth, but it was already too late. Sherlock was ripping into his throat in a vicious display that made John’s stomach turn in terror and disgust.

John thought himself well accustomed to violence. Living a pack life was not always pack runs and game hunting. Sometimes there were vicious clashes to protect territory, wars in the name of vengeance for fallen comrades, and the one that nearly got him killed years ago, hunting down a pack that was actively stalking the perimeter of their territory. They had been a bad lot.

The land John's pack occupied at the time hadn't even been ideal.  The soil was too saturated to build a stable den upon, the stream, too far, and the deer migrated in the opposite direction. But the pack skulking just along the edge of their land were the type to slaughter for the pleasure of it. They were bored, and those packs were always the worst.

That fight left John severely wounded, and Bill hadn't allowed him to run with the pack for weeks. It devastated him. He’d felt weak and useless. But that was the way of their life. John knew there was a time to fight and a time to flee; when he knew the foe was too great to best. He just counted his blessings that they never crossed a wolf like Sherlock.

 The alpha spared no thought to quick deaths. The man’s loud wails gave way to wet gurgles as he strangled on his own blood. John turned away as he noticed a piece of flesh between Sherlock’s teeth.

He was horrified. That was the wolf he’d entrusted his life to, and one who sought to mate with him. A man-eater. A monster.

For the first time since Sherlock made his offer, John wondered if it would be wise to stay. Would that be his fate if he refused Sherlock? There was still so much about the wolf he didn't know. He seemed to be a fair leader, not tyrannical, and he gave his pack the freedom to do as they liked. But mated wolves always did things differently. Priorities shifted and an alpha would protect his mate before the pack any given day. Dynamics changed to suit the new union. Some wolves grew more volatile, and others cooled with the right mate at their side.

Sherlock was already a changeable alpha, which made him an unpredictable variable. John had no way to know which way he’d go if he accepted that offer, and that's what frightened him the most.

He retreated into the trees to wait for Sherlock.

 

-

 

No matter how many times he read the note, John couldn't decipher the meaning. It read like a nursery rhyme, but if it was, it was one he hadn't heard of. Those things often circulated around humans, passed down for generations. Wolves had songs, which they sang with their howls.

There was the variant of his name, but what was it meant to imply? Sherlock had to know something, given the way he reacted to it. John figured it must be a threat of some sort.

John closed his eyes and leant back against the tree, listening for any sign of Sherlock approaching. He was sure it had been half an hour when he left him with the dead human, and still no sign of him.

John hadn't gone very far, and Sherlock could easily track him. He just knew that he had to put some distance between them.

Then there were breaths near his neck, wetness on the back of his shoulder where a damp muzzle sniffled. John hadn't heard him coming, and before he realized it, John was feeling the rippling vibrations of the change beneath his skin.

He turned to see Sherlock evaluating him silently, sitting on his hind legs, long glossy tail curled around his paws. Even then, John had to peer up at him. Sherlock was enormous. As a wolf, John was still a bit shorter than him, but almost evenly matched in muscle mass. Sherlock was larger, even, than Bill.

The tingle under his skin faded into nothing as the adrenaline drained away.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John spoke. “Make some noise next time, yeah?”

Sherlock merely ran his tongue over his muzzle and yawned. John couldn't smell blood anymore, so he must have found a source of water to wash off in.

Heaving a sigh of relief, John sat back against the tree and crossed his ankles.

It didn't look like Sherlock would be changing back for the time being.

The wolf sauntered forward, sniffing at the ground surrounding John, and circled until he came to flank his right side, his least dominant hand. Sherlock was guarding his weak side.

John flushed warmly at the realization. Bill used to do the same for him all of the time, which worked because Bill's weak side was his left hand. They protected one another.  

The thought made him feel nostalgic, so John fiercely shoved away the memory and cast his mind on more immediate problems, like the unsolved riddle he held.

“Johnny shall have a new master…,” he mumbled, squinting through the dark at the note. “What is he alluding to? And there's supposed to have been another riddle, Sherlock.”

John looked to his companion, but Sherlock's eyes were closed and his great jaw rested on the ground by his paws. His twitching ears gave him away, though.

“You know something, don't you?”

A very Sherlockian sigh emitted from the lazy wolf as he continued to ignore John's question in lieu of playing at sleep.

John pressed on, unwilling to be cut out of whatever game Sherlock was playing with whoever was sending the riddles. After all, it could be the same people who slaughtered his pack.

“Sherlock,” he sighed, frustrated. “What aren't you telling me?”

Instead of answering, the wolf issued a low rumble. Non-threatening, but nonetheless a warning to make no more enquiries on the subject.

John felt restless. There was no way he’d be able to sleep with every nerve-ending on alert and Sherlock unwilling to talk to him about their current dilemma.

He took a deep breath and stood. He was never one for pacing, but his skin felt too tight and he was tired of having to bite his tongue with Sherlock. The point of accepting his offer of companionship was the help that came with it. Instead, Sherlock was hiding things and killing humans. What good was that to John? None of it would avenge his fallen kin.

He pivoted mid-stride and nearly jumped out of his skin when he collided with Sherlock's muzzle. Wintry eyes watched him calmly, steadily, and maybe even seemed a bit curious.

“What, Sherlock? A little room, please,” he growled under his breath. Unless Sherlock wanted to talk about what was happening, John didn't have the patience for him.

Sherlock's figure began to shift and vibrate, muscles snapping as they realigned to support his bipedal form. John turned away to allow Sherlock a moment to recollect. The change was always disorientating, at least for John anyway.

“John,” he heard behind him. A large hand fell on his shoulder and Sherlock came around to stand before him. “You’re upset with me.”

John crossed his arms, chuckling, though he was as far from amused as he could get. “Upset. Yes, Sherlock, of course I'm upset!”

He stepped back and Sherlock's hand dropped back to his side heavily.

“You said you wanted to help me, Sherlock. You _offered_ to come.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Yes, I did, and I will.”

“Then, tell me what you know, Sherlock, or I'll find out. On my own. _Without_ you.”

Sherlock hissed, piercing eyes narrowed to slits as he stalked closer. He loomed, trying to reassert his dominance, but John held his unblinking stare with a firm jaw. Finally, Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned away.

“Fine,” he spat. “Though I doubt _you’ll_ be capable of making much sense of it.”

Sherlock lifted the strap of his bag from around his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. Digging out clothes seemed to be his last priority and John was having a hard time keeping his eyes from dipping below chest level.  

The alpha was gorgeously built, streamlined like a swimmer, and covered in even, alabaster skin from top to toe. At first glance, the only threatening feature about Sherlock was his height and his too intelligent eyes, but up close, there was a reserved power in every move. Everything Sherlock did seemed thought about, calculated. He wielded control like a weapon. It was beautiful to watch.

Sherlock knelt, unconcerned with modesty, and dug out a folded piece of paper, identical to the note John held. “This was lying on your kitchen table,” he said, and held the paper up between his fingers.

John plucked the note from Sherlock and unfolded it.

The writing was the same, except there was no personal message left on the first note. As Sherlock predicted, John was confused. There didn't seem to be a connection between the nursery rhymes. The note from the kitchen table was blatantly threatening, while the one from the messenger had a more playful tone.

He flicked his eyes up to Sherlock who had come to stand over him, reading over his shoulder.

“What do you think?” John asked as Sherlock's eyes sped across the lines with fixed intensity.

Sherlock shook his head, a line appearing between his brows as he mulled on his response. “I've a theory.”

John heaved a sigh and pursed his lips on the words he wanted to hurl at his companion. “Sherlock, tell me. Right now, hm?”

Sherlock growled and stomped off, clutching his unruly curls, before he swung back to John, a sudden current of energy. “There’s nothing to tell you yet, John! This—” Sherlock snatched the note from John's hands. “Is nothing! It's merely a child playing a game. What am I to do with this— _nursery rhymes!_ ” Sherlock scoffed.

Sherlock could be lying, but there was no way for John to prove it. His aggravation appeared sincere, but John didn’t yet know everything that Sherlock was capable of.

“John, I promise. The moment I'm sure, you'll be the first to know,” Sherlock assured softly. He closed the distance between them and cupped John's face with gentle hands. “I won't let them get away with what they've done to your pack. We’ll tear them limb from limb. Together.”

John took a deep, calming breath. He nodded. His palms stung from where his fingernails burrowed into them. The pain kept him grounded and his head on straight. He didn't believe that Sherlock didn't have at least an inkling, and he _did_ say that he had a theory. But John had to trust that when Sherlock put it all together, he would come to him.

Sherlock caressed his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs, wistful touches that snatched the breath from his lungs.

Those hands had just pinned a man and tore him apart, and now, in a paradoxical exchange that made his head spin, Sherlock was being tender with him.

John should have seen it coming, but Sherlock's advance stumped him anyway.

Sherlock eliminated what little space there was between them until he was all John could see, smell, taste, hear, _feel_. He slid his large hands up John's cheekbones and into his hair, creating a soft cradle for his head as he sealed their lips.

John didn't dwell on the possibility that Sherlock could be trying to divert his attention. Instead, he allowed himself to yield to Sherlock's ministrations. He softened, loosened his jaw and made himself pliant. The subsequent rumble of pleased acceptance against his lips liquefied his bones.

The taste of blood still lingered on Sherlock's palate, but it wasn't anything John hadn't experienced before. However dark the thought may be, John enjoyed the coppery flavour under their current circumstance. There was something about fighting and fucking that all wolves relished to some extent. Maybe it was the thrill of a successful hunt or their need to reinforce their camaraderie. Some packs were known to indulge in this as a group, but in John's opinion, it was better—more powerful—with only two.

They sank to the ground without breaking their embrace, and one of Sherlock's hands was already tugging at John's clothes.

“Pesky human things,” Sherlock pulled away to mutter.

John moved to help him, worried his clothes might end up in tatters if he allowed Sherlock to disrobe him. Then, they were both bare as pups and pressed skin-to-skin.

Sherlock bit his lip and sucked his tongue, claiming his mouth as if it had always been on offer. Sherlock rolled and pulled John to straddle him in a surprising move. Most alphas preferred to remain in the higher position during sex, but Sherlock was an unusual wolf and apparently had no such qualms. It was exciting, and John's quite liked the feel of that hard body settled beneath his bum, between his legs.

Sherlock ran a tender hand up his back and John's eyelashes fluttered with the motion. It was nice to be handled so carefully, yet there was that underlying moment when things could go from soft to rough in a split second. John enjoyed the reflection of the wild in Sherlock's luminous eyes. He was so primal; uninhibited by common pack laws. He killed when he needed to, claimed, hunted, fucked like an animal, and John found it all terribly arousing.

Sherlock gripped his arse in one large hand and John's nape in the other, and pulled him down into a savage kiss. John moaned, set aflame as their lips collided in a brutal clash of teeth and tongue, and sultry, wet exchanges. The taste of the human spilled onto his tongue, rich and overwhelming, but the tang of city life soured it somewhat. Carbon monoxide, ozone, processed foods, hygienic chemicals. John didn't know how Sherlock could stand it.

Sherlock's fingers gripped his buttock as one curious finger prodded his hole. John pushed back against it, eyes half-lidded as he gazed down as his companion with a hunger too great to fathom. But he was not a female, and Sherlock wasn't going to fit inside him so easily.

John bent to that flawless chest and pressed the flat of his tongue against it. Even his sweat was delicious. Everything about Sherlock called to him in some virile way. He ached to prove himself, to submit in a way that pleased his alpha and excited him.

John licked a stripe along his long neck that concluded with a suckle at the bottom of his jaw. Sherlock groaned, sliding his cock between John's cheeks with the barely controlled rocking of his hips.

John's prick twitched where it lay on Sherlock's belly, weeping pre-come and untouched until Sherlock was ready for him to climax.

He rocked his hips in time with Sherlock's, his stomach dropping at the slick slide of the alpha’s cock in such an intimate place.

God, John needed him, wanted to be wrapped around him, but surely Sherlock would take their joining as an affirmative of his offer to mate. John hadn't reached a decision yet, and what happened earlier had given him pause. Why, then, was it so easy to surrender to Sherlock's advances?

Every touch sent him through the clouds and the power of those muscles beneath his fingertips made John's cock fill with blood.

Sherlock jerked him close as John's tongue reached his lips, and as he was particularly brilliant at doing, the wolf devoured him.

It was too slow, too genteel. Too human, and neither of them felt much like being anything but savages. So, John wasn't surprised when their licks turned to nips then to bites until they were waging war on one another's bodies.

Sherlock picked him up and slammed him onto his stomach in the dirt, knocking the wind out of John’s lungs.

He pulled John's hips up until his bum was shamelessly on display, spread apart by fingers-turned-claws. Sherlock panted against his arsehole and John, too, struggled to catch his breath.

Sherlock did not delay long. In the next second, John was moaning his pleasure to Sherlock and the trees as a wet muscle penetrated the barrier of his sphincter and slid inside.

Sherlock grunted against him as he fucked John with nothing but his lips and tongue, pressing deep enough to make John's voice deepen an octave. He pulled away, only to nip John's arse playfully before dipping his tongue into John's slick opening.

By the time Sherlock retreated for the last time, John was a sweating, quivering mass of flesh beneath him, boneless and open like a bitch in heat.

Sherlock sat on his calves, legs spread and dick heavy with blood. He manoeuvred John’s legs to flank his own, then positioned his cock at John's entrance.

“John,” he said, and John turned his head to the side to acknowledge him. “I know this isn't you saying yes. Just… let us have this. It doesn't have to be more than what it is, for now at least.”

John nodded and Sherlock did too, once, before sinking inside of him. He wasn't stretched enough, but John delighted in the burn of Sherlock's cock forcing him open. He didn't want easy. There was no challenge there, and John suspected that Sherlock knew this and it excited him as well.

John sat up, holding his weight on his forearms and reeling in his legs so that they could be closer. He wanted to feel Sherlock's weight on his back and his breaths against his neck.

Sherlock's hands threaded through the gap between his arms and thighs and anchored them on the ground, until they were pressed front to back. With every thrust, Sherlock's breath scraped across John’s chin. The hitch in Sherlock’s throat sent thrills tingling down John’s spine.

He tormented John so beautifully, ramming his prostate until John was on the brink of an orgasm, only to fall short of the mark for the next five thrusts.

Then they were going slow, and Sherlock's hands skated up his chest. The way he moved reminded John of a dancer, sure of every single beat change, every rhythm. The flawless undulation of his hips, the skill of leading John though their number as he exposed his neck and kissed John tenderly at the point of his pulse. All without ever missing a beat.

John was delirious with lust and near tears as he was continually denied his climax.

Sherlock's hands lovingly caressed his swollen cock and balls, only gripping light enough to tease.

He handled John with such mastery, like clay under a potter’s hand. John would be hard-pressed to disobey any command. The ferocity of his desire was overwhelming. John whimpered and pressed into Sherlock's touch, aching for the soft cradle of the alpha's hand.

Instead of complying, Sherlock returned his clutch to John’s hips and bade him move.

“Yessss,” Sherlock hissed as John took the cue and rocked himself on Sherlock's prick. His calves were already burning and his knees were scraped raw, but John barely noticed as he rose and fell, again and again until Sherlock was suffering the same torment.

Jointly, the pace sped up and soon, their grunts and moans were the only sound that rang out in the woods. John's hands clung to Sherlock's on his waist as he used his body strength to bring them to a fantastic finish.

One swipe of Sherlock's thumb over the head of his penis and that exploratory tongue licking a drop of sweat off his back, and John was coming hard enough to hit his own chin with semen. He clamped down viciously around Sherlock's prick and the alpha cried out. Sharp, prickly nails dug into John's waist, but the pain only added to the pleasure.

Sherlock's body shuddered behind his, tiny aftershocks that one only experienced after a powerful orgasm.

Finally, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist as he slid out of him, and lowered him to the ground. John didn't think he would be able to move anytime soon, but all the same, he rolled onto his belly and got comfortable.

Soft hands wandered down his spine, and even softer lips touched the small of his back. Sherlock gently cleaned him with his tongue, grooming John for what seemed like hours before he finally settled down beside him.

“Sleep,” was the last thing John heard before the world descended into utter darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you had trouble reading the note, here's the text in plain format:
> 
>  
> 
> **Hope you enjoyed my last note, Sherly. I'm enjoying this game of cat and mouse, but we both know you can't hide forever. No, that would be much too boring for you. I should know, because you and I are the same. Here’s another riddle to solve until our next meeting. Enjoy! Oh, and do tell Johnny hello for me. Smooches!**
> 
>  
> 
> **See-saw, Margery Daw,**
> 
>  
> 
> **Johnny shall have a new Master.**
> 
>  
> 
> **He shall have but a penny a day,**
> 
>  
> 
> **Because he can’t work any faster.**
> 
>  
> 
> I know, I know. My John is wishy-washy, but can't we all be, sometimes?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Follow me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for info on updates and projects. All important news on updates are posted there, so don't miss out!
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.


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